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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap... Copyright No» 

Shelf.„iS.-7-.(Ii. S 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




^t^ 






Off on Pegasus, 



-IS^K'- 




JAMES BUCHANAN SIDERS, 



-A-UTHOie 015*- 



"Beyond Human Ken," "Blaine's Campaign," "Songs 
of a Pleb," "A Social Sensation," etc. 



* KacH spurs liis jaded F'egastis apace, 
A.nd Tl^yiine and Iblanlc ixiaintain an. eciual race.** 

—Byron, 



DAYTON, OHIO: ^^ 



1896. 



^D^'^^ 



I-,OOiVI^ BJl^lOMOIV. 



.61 



0^ 



Entered, acording to act of Congress, in the year 1896, 
By JAMES BUCHANAN SIDERS, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, 
All Rights Reserved. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



Pegasus was the famous winged horse. The ancients, and espe- 
cially those who believed in the myths, said that Pegasus sprang from 
the blood of Medusa when her head was cutoff by Perseus. Medusa 
was one of the Gorgons who didn't seem to care a pin for her virtue ; 
and as she was very handsome, and occupied too much of the time 
and attention of Old Neptune, Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, (who 
by the way was not too wise to be jealous), had Medusa's golden hair 
changed into serpents. After that Medusa had to wear her hair in 
coils or a la "serpentine twist," and not hanging down her back. 
Still, this didn't seem to cause Medusa and Neptune to behave nice, 
and so, Minerva had Perseus to perform the part of the '' heavy 
villain." 

Just here is where Pegasus puts in an appearance. Pluto had 
loaned Perseus a helmet that made him invisible, so he could get close 
to Medusa. Pallas lent him her shield and Mercury supplied him 
with wings The conspiracy against Medusa was now complete, and 
Perseus decapitated her and flew through the air with her head. As 
he flew, the blood of Medusa flowed freely, and from it sprang the 
winged horse, Pegasus. 

As Perseus flitted along he saw Andromeda chained to a rock, 
and a sea serpent was about to devour her. He killed the monster, as 
it was easy to kill sea serpents in those days, and married Andromeda. 

This was only a little side show of his own, but still Medusa had 
a horse on him. When h3 got back to headquarters he showed 
Medusa's head to King Polydectes, and the monarch was immediately 
turned into stone. This proved to be a very hard lot for a king, and 
as Medusa's head turned every one to stone who looked at it, as it lay 
upon the shield, Minerva was smart enough not to have it brought 
into her sight. 

In order to curry favor with Pegasus (and this was the first time 
Peg. was ever curried), Minerva gave him a golden bridle and placed 
the golden bit in his mouth with her own tiny white hands. 

Pegasus then loped ott to Mount Helicon where he grazed on 
pastures new and green until, as some writers say, he had to draw a 
load of thunderbolts for Jupiter, when that worthy was called upon 
to operate the electric batteries of the skies. 

Once in awhile, it is said, that Aurora borrowed the winged steed 
to make a trip to a neighboring star, especially when the trolley cars 
were not running, and when Jupiter was on a vacation and the cur- 
rent was grounded. 

One day while grazing on Mount Helicon the winged horse was 
pestered by the flies which he was not able to drive away with his 
wings or his tail. All of a sudden a big horse fly bit him on the ri^ht 
hind leg, when Pegasus let drive at the fly with all his force. I.uckily 
his hoof struck the ground in a tender place and a beautiful fountain 
of clear water sprang forth, which fountain was afterwards c illed 
Hippocrene, so famous in song. 



Of course Pegasus plays a part in the myths of Bellerophon and 
Chimera, but it was as the horse of the Muses he proved to be the 
drawing card — or rather, drawing horse. There were nine of these 
Muses — daughters of Jupiter — and if Pegasus could keep up a trot, or 
pace or even a fly, in those days, sufficient to satisfy nine girls, I 
venture to say that he could eclipse any modern horse, bicycle or 
trolley car. 

After the nine Muses kept Pegasus for a family horse until he got 
old and stiff and could not graze upon Mount Helicon, or eat golden 
oats with the golden bridle bit between his teeth, they pawned the 
golden bridle with Plutus and turned Pegasus out to graze at will, 
wherever he could find good picking. 

The old horse was cared for by first one man and then another, 
and finely the side-saddle was invented, and the poor old animal has 
been ridden well-nigh to death by men and women ever since. 

But he has managed to carry some of them to Fame, where they 
could see her spreading her white wings and hear her blowing her 
golden trumpet. 

In modern times, many who mount upon the back of Pegasus 
are not trained or gifted riders, and they soon tind themselves un- 
horsed and lying by the wayside. Others are able to sit in the saddle 
and guide the horse, but have no golden spurs to urge him on. But 
now, I am up and he is off. 

Dayton, Ohio. J. B. S. 




PART I. 



OFF ON PEGASUS, 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 

Ho! Pegasus, of god-sent strain, 
With foam-fiecked trappings tattered, 

I seek to scour an unknown plain, 
With broken idols scattered. 

And will you bear me on my way. 
Through fields and skies Elysian? 

I'll sing for us a gentle lay. 
And you shall time the vision. 

Yes, dutiful and willing steed, 

Fond messenger of poet, 
You'll tell me how you've earned your feed. 

For you alone must know it? 

**Kind sir," he answered with a neigh, 

''Since horse-talk you are after, 
I've often thought I'd like to say ; 

You scribes provoke my laughter. 

''The Sanskrit, Greek and Latin bards, 
Were first my back to straddle ; 

They rode about the stable yards, 
A-holding to the saddle. 

"And then the English caught the craze, 
Oh, shades of Geoffrey Chaucer! 

I hav'nt had the time to graze, 
From that day until now, sir! 

"For Spencer, Milton, Dryden, Pope, 
And Goldsmith, Cowper, P>yron, 

Each used his spurs to make me lope. 
Allured by song of siren. 

"But Shakespeare was the heaviest load. 

In fact, he caused me trouble, 
When he and Bacon on me rode, 

And made me carry double. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



"Traged'ans, then, both high and low, 
With kings and lords and ladies, 

Made all the streams with crimson flow, 
From heaven down to Hades. 

^ Those tragic bards so swayed my back, 
And did with spurs so rake me, 

I had to seek another track, 
As far as wings would take me. 

"America, where next I stopped, 
With pastures green and tender, 

By winged horse had not been cropped — 
I thought I'd graze in splendor. 

"I had not roamed the fields a day, 

Until a youngster spied me ; 
And then he tried, I'm loth to say, 

To mount my back and ride me. 

''I flew, of course, in self-defense ; 

I feared those tyro horsemen, 
I had no love or recompense, 

Or fancy for a Norseman. 

"At last 'he caught me ofi" my feed ;' 
With Halleck, Poe and Whittier, 

Longfellow, Bryant, Saxe and Read 
And others who were wittier. 

"All rode me then, both far and near, 

Till I conceived a notion 
To fly again, to England, dear. 

Across the *bloomin' ocean.' 

"But when I lit, again, alas, 

Fatigued by trip so stormy, 
Some men who took me for an ass, 

Were slyly waiting for me. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



"A laureate, in truth, I spied, 

Rehearsing of his sonnets. 
And in the back-ground soon descried 

Some queer, assertive bonnets. 

"Great heaven ! I thought, in pensive mood, 

Are these the ancient muses 
Who made me earn my drink and food, 

Because I was Medusa's? 

'I lost no time but flew again. 

Across the briny waters ; 
I'd little use for Britain's men, 

And less for Britain's daughters. 

"And when I thought myself secure, 
And freed from bits and tethers. 

Some little man, almost obscure. 
Would pounce upon my withers. 

"I didn't care for being ciught; 

Upon that I was counting ; 
The thing 'gainst which I always fought, 

Was their rude style of mounting. 

"They always wore their western spurs. 

And gave my sides a raking, 
So that my flanks, as oft occurs. 

Were bleeding, quiv'ring, aching. 

"No sooner on than they were ofl'; 

They even failed to guide me. 
They feared a giggle or a scoflf. 

And never learned to ride me. 

"So back and forth, back and forth, 

I am compelled to canter, 
No one is paying what it's worth 

To ride a Tam o' S banter. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



^'1 now deplore a lot so sore, 
With spavin, ring-bone, swinney, 

And as I soar from shore to shore, 
I feel I'm getting skinny. 

''But you're no worse than some I know. 
And yet, you might be better — 

It is a debt to you I owe, 
And I can't die a debtor. 

*'So spring upon my willing back, 
I choose, no more, my riders; 

They choose me. Alas, alack ! 
There are no rank out-Siders. 



APPEAL TO THE EDITOK. 

Ah, editor with knitted brow, 

And eye alert, detailable ; 
Will I intrude upon you now ? 

I've something here that's salable. 
So, spare, oh spare the pencil blue. 

Spare those words so railable. 
Be pleased in all you choose to do, 

But don't say, " unavailable." 

Ah, editor, I see you frown; 

Your sturdy gaze, unquailable. 
Is fixed upon the smiling clown 

Who hides in form so mailable ; 
But genius-born, with shiny coat, 

While yet you may be bailable. 
Oh, feed this to the office goat. 

But don't say " unavailable." 

Oh, hated word, so glum and chill. 

And, growing somew^hat stale-a-ble, 
Fit alone, faint hearts to kill, 

And render life bewailable ; 
Oh, write it not, but send the cash. 

Or something that's regaleable — 
You understand? Don't think me rash. 

And don't say, " unavailable." 



OFP ON PEGASUS. 




It's down in ole Virginny, 

Yo' find de pickaninny ; 
Whar de raccoon's tail is ringed all 'round an' de possum's tail is bare ; 

Whar de 'backer an' de sugar cane 

Grow along de shady lane, 
Whar de foxie wears his bushy tail an' stumpy goes de hare. 

Chorus — 

Yes, down in ole Virginny, 

Whar de possum's teef am grinny, 
Dar's whar de 'simmon tree b'ars de fiuit so fine ; 

Dar's whar de little coon 

First saw de autumn moon 
When de watah-million hung so sweet 'pon de vine. 



Ah, down in ole Virginny, 

Whar poor ole Ma's McKinney 
Lef his home an' fire-side to jine the boys in blue. 

An' staid four years, an' neber tells, 

Till one eve we heard de bells, 
An' saw him come a-bringin' home de cows fer me an' sister Sue. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 




Chorus— 

'Twas down in ole Virginny, 

Whar de peacock an' de ginny, 
An' de turkey an' de pheasant-hen all 'have so mighty shy, 

Whar it was de brae man's sole delight 

To trabel at de dead o' night, 
An' pluck de game-birds dat he foun' roostin' in de trees so high. 



Chorus- 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



THE MAN WHO WEARS A SASH. 

Ob, give me a gun 

That '11 carry a ton, 
And pierce armor plate with deafening crash ; 

For I'm aching to shoot 

The foreign galoot 
Who taught us the art of wearing the sash. 

We fancy the man 

Who does what he can 
To encourage the fuzz he calls a mustache ; 

But can we admire 

That son of a sire 
Whose mind is at rest when he's wearing a sash ? 

He may smoke cigarettes 

And make foolish bets, 
Read novels and piles of yellow-backed trash; 

He may even declare 

He's seen the World's Fair, 
But save him, we pray, from w^ earing that sash. 

We don't even care 

If he wears long hair. 
And talks like a sissy making a mash ; 

Though folly enslaves hi in, 

Protect and save him 
From the awful ordeal of wearing a sash. 

We can stand knee-pants, 

The calves' elegance. 
Or e'en paste diamonds with powerful flash ; 

But must draw the line 

On tbings feminine, 
And ask for protection when it comes to the sash. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



BLACK JOE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

A bird in de ban' is wo'f two in de busb, 

If de bird is on de dollar ; 
Fo' some hoi' on in de mighty push 

Till they make de eagle holler. 

A stitch in time oft sabes you nine, 
'Cept a stitch in yo' back my honey ; 

Yo' kain't tell by his clo'es so fine, 
When a dude hain't got no money. 

Jes so many men, jes so many min's, 
An' dey seldom pulls together; 

'Tain't like de sheep up in de pines, 
Which foller de ole bell-wether. 

O, money sabed is money aimed. 
If it's aimed by honest labor; 

But some folks nowadays have lairned 
Fo' to 'pend upon a neighbor. 

0, watch dat man who prays so loud. 
When you tends de next camp-meetiri', 

Fo' in a horse trade none o' de crowd 
Kin beat that feller cheatin'. 





And now, my blue-eyed boy, 
And little rosy girl, 

Your hearts are full of joy, 
Your heads are in a whirl 



[Page 9, Part J.] 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 



THEY NEVER SAID A WORD. 

There was a big potato 

Which had a pair of eyes ; 
Yet, it never saw a thing 

To fill it with surprise ; 
It never lost a wink 
Of sleep, but stop'd to think 
Before it took a drink — 

That potato with the e5es 

Was very, very wise. 

There was a stalk of corn 

Which had a pair of ears ; 
From night until the morn 

It heard the singing spheres ; 
Yet it didn't act absurd, 
Or tell a thing it heard — 
It always kept its word — 

That stalk with ears acute 

Ne'er fell into dispute. 

There was an easy shoe 

Which had a trusty tongue ; 
It had no sins to rue — 

Was never in the wrong; 
You never heard it speak — 
You might have heard it squeak 
Where its very sole was weak. 

But its trusty tongue 
Was never in the wrong. 

And now, my blue-eyed boy, 

And little rosy girl, 
Your heaits are full of joy, 

Your heads are in a whirl ; 
But stop and let us see, 
If here, for you and me, 
A lesson from tlie three, 

Potato, corn and shoe, 

We're able to construe. 



10 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



THE PRONOUN '^I.'' 

0, for a man built on a plan, 

Be he from Beersheba — even from Dan, 

Who do€S not try, or even vie, 

To excel in the use of the pronoun " I." 

A man not proud, whose tones so loud, 
Don't cover you up in a wordy cloud, 
Who'll let you reply without a eigh, 
When he fails to get ia his pronoun " I." 

A man who's meek, without a cheek 
As hard as the stone on Fremont's peak, 
A man in speech who is somewhat shy 
When it comes to using the pronoun " I." 



ROBIN RED BREAST'S SONG. 

What does poor robin sing? What does he sing? 
''Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling! 

Now is sprirg, now is spring ! 

Trill- up, troll-up, 

My mate I'll call up, 
Our nest to the apple-tree soon will cling." 

What does poor robin say ? What does he say ? 
'^ Cheek-a-leek, cheek-a-leek ! 

Days were bleak, days were bleak ! 

Clouds are gone, days are sunny ; 

Bees are out seeking honey. 
And soon within our nest four eggs we'll lay." 

What does poor robin do? What does he do? 
Still he's singing, still he's siojiing. 
While sweet blooms from earth are springing; 
*'My mate is brooding, my mate is brooding; 
No intruding, no intruding; 

Then with ev'ry spring time we'll come and sing to you." 



OFF ON PEGASUS, 11 



THANKSGIVING PLEISANTRY. 

Now doth the festive turkey- 
Hold high his haughty head, 

He knows not what is coming, 
Nor why he's so well fed; 

He's happy in the ignorance 
Of this and other facts, 

But pretty soon he'll get it 
Where the chicken got the ax. 

And there's the fine Muscovy, 

And the toothsome canvas back. 
Who are so fat with feeding. 

They scarcely can say " quack." 
They'll soon be full of oysters, 

Eich stuffing, nuts and seeds. 
For they are sure to get it 

Where Rebecca wears her beads. 

I hear poor Bob White whistle 

In the cornfield near the hedge, 
And there's a city huater 

Hard by the forest's edge ; 
His brace of dogs are '* pointing " — 

A whir — the hunter aims — 
Bob White is sure to get it 

Where old Celim wears his hames. 



'Tis now the country editor 

Rets up '' The Beautiful Snow," 
Eut ere he gets his paper out 

Behold his grief and woe; 
For all the snow so '* beautiful," 

Becomes a horrid slush, 
And he like all the little streams 

About the thaw will gush. 



12 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



SIGNS OF SANTA'S COMING. 

"I am persuaded that every time a man smiles — but much more so when he 
laughs — it adds something to this fragment of life, — [Sterne. 

Have you noticed it, dear reader, 

That the editor's last " leader " 

Was on that good old fellow, Santa Claus? 

Have you noticed lads and lasses 

Now attend their Sunday classes, 

All to please their dear papas and mammas ? 



Have you noticed the affection 

Displayed in your own direction 

By your charming, little, fascinating wife? 

Did you see that sweet expression ? 

'Twas an open, frank confession 

That she loves you still more dearly than her life. 



Have you noticed how the maiden, 

With her loving heart full laden. 

Hangs upon her lover's arm, so coy and shy ? 

Have you noticed how she tarries. 

How she hints, contrives and parries — 

Says that Santa Claus is coming buy and buy ? 



Oh, the world is full of smiling, 

AVith the presents round you piling, 

As old Santa makes your cash account to fly ; 

But a monster is Old Santa 

When you cannot '' see the ante " — 

When you haven't got the money by to buy. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 13 



A WET WEATHER WAIL. 



0, for a day that's sunlit and shiny, 
When there's not a cloud ever so tiny 

To keep us a-fretting, 

Lamenting, regrettins^, 
Anchored in doors for fear of a wetting. 

O, for the advent of spring with her roses, 
To see something red except the red noses, 

To be sure of surviving 

By swimming and diving, 
As through the moist streets we go tugging and striving. 



O, for a regular, old-time circus, 

A lot of sleek fellows with " soap " to work us, 

A talkative dandy 

With peanuts and candy, 
And moss-covered jokes to spring on us handy. 



O, for a crank quite active and willing 
To start a ball club that's really killing. 

With a coacher that's mellow, 

With a voice to bellow. 
When it comes to calling the visitors "' yellow. 



The Easter flowers begin to wake, 
And verdant grow the grasses, 

And now the little children take 
Their sulphur and mohissos. 



14 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



THE "BUM" POLITICIAN. 

" Knowing, what all experience goes to show, 
No mud can sod us but the mud we throw." 

— [Lowell. 

To ev'ry man he's friendly, 

Yes, ev'ry man he meets, 
He wants to take him by the arm 

And walk him down the streets ; 
And as he grows more eloquent, 

He stops just to repeat : 
" 0, won't we snow 'em under? 

But come, boys, it's my treat! " 

[Here he takes his man into the nearest saloon and calls to the loafers standing on 
the outside to follow.] 

** Sing out dere wot yer drinkin', 

I'm takin' whisky straight ; 
You fellers standin' 'round de lunch. 

Come, jine us in a skate. 
Just see 'em come a-rollin' up. 

Well, ain't we in it, boys ? 
I fought so. Have another, 

An' den we'll make some noise." 

[Just here the whole gang attempt to sing " Grover, Grover, four more years of 
Grover," and then they yell for Hardnut, their favorite candidate, who is putting up 
the " boodle." The cheering is interrupted by music on the outside and the gang rush 
out at the front door to see a company of women marching down the street with ban- 
ners waving, cheering for Straight Goods, the woman's candidate.] 

" Wot's dat ? a band o' women ? 

Well, wot you t'ink o' (^at? 
Hoorayin' fer ole Straight Goods, too ! 

Sai, boys, where are we at ? 
Dat hoodoos us an' we're settled ; 

Hardnut can take a sneak ; 
No use to talk o' winnin'. 

Wen woman 'gins to speak ! " 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 15 



THE POLITICAL FISHERMAN. 

'Tis now the politician 
For votes goes out a-fishin', 

Behold how fresh and glad he is ! 
He is a clever thinker, 
And his little sinker 

Is the *• dollar of our daddies." 

And ev'ry little fib '11 
Help him to get a *' nibble, ' 

If he has any luck, or 
Fishes along the gutters 
Where the '*long green' flatters, 

He's sure to catch a suckei. 

He shuns the swamps so miry. 
Where jack-o'-lanterns fiery 

Are often prone to lead him ; 
Or takes a little air if 

Mosquitoes on the tariff 

Undertake to bleed him. 

But by his button-holiug. 
He does bis heavy polling — 

Catches votes and glories o'er it; 
But after the election 
He has no recollection 

Of pledges made before it. 



The clubman with his Una and hook, 

Fish ward now is hieing, 
To ensnare from lake and brook 

The finny tribe, for frying; 
And with his neighbor on the block, 

He is stoutly vieing 
To get the big^t st fish in stock 

Without recourse to buying. 
Or telling stories that will shock 

The '' champion " for lying. 



16 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



AN ANCIENT JOKE. 

Ten thousand years ago 
There lived a wit, Kordo, 
Who served Abdallah Bo 
At Cairo. 

He once had learned in school 
An aged joke. The tool, 
Or subject was, as is the rule, 
'' The mule." 

*' The mule kicks," as»'tis said 
By those who wag the head, 
With fate to be misled 
Inbred. 

*' He kick?," was on the scroll. 
Writ in such ancient dole 
That El Abdallah stole 

The whole. 

He read it to his heirs — 
Gave them the joke as theirs : 
'^ The mule kicks and rears 

Unawares." 

Abdallah died, erstwhile, 
Was buried on the Nile, 
'Neath a pyramidic pile, 
For style. 

Embalmed (the j )ke at side). 
His children, just for pride. 
Tried hard to spread it wide- 
It died. 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 17 



The Si^es sped away 
As joke and joker lay 
'Neath the pyramid of clay, 
So gray. 

But modern men of art 
Have dug the pile apart, 
And gave the joke a start, 

With heart. 

And with their modern ken 
And busy press and pen, 
'Twill never die again, 
Amen. 



ONE KEDEEMING (?) FEATURE. 

[This was written before we had a new union depot, electric cars and a Sunday 

closing law.] 

A gay young fellow came to Dayton, 
And resolved one night to '' go skatin', " 

So he *' got out his kite " 

To take a high flight; 
" To paint red," as he said, " this old jay-town." 

But the saloons were so utterly utter. 

They swamped the young man in the gutter; 

For before he got through 

With the six hundred and two, 
They carried him out on a shutter ! 

So, that gay young man with the "jag" on, 
Said : " Your depot 's nothing to brag on, 

And your street cars and tracks 

Are a lot of old hacks ; 
I>nt your saloons — could conquer the dragon I " 



18 OFF ON PEGASUS, 



HUSH, MY BABY, DON'T YOU CRY. 

Adam an' Eve at peace in de garden, 

Dey neber heard a baby cry ; 
Dey had no sins an' dey ask'd no pardon 

'Till Satan wink'd his other eye. 

Chorus — 

Den 'twcis: "Hush, my babies, Cain an' 
Abel, bogie man '11 ketch yo' if yo' cry ; 

Hush, my babies, Cain an' Abel, papa is 
comin' toodge yo' by an' by." 

Rom'lus an' Remus, thrown in de river, 
Were washed asho' an' left to die, 

An' soon began to cry an' to shiver. 
When ole she-wolf came trottin' by. 

Chorus — 

Den 'twas: "Hush, my babies, hush my 
babies, bogie man '11 ketch yo' if 
yo' cry; 

Hush, my babies, hush my babies, papa is 
comin' toodge yo' by an' by." 

Holy Moses 'way down in de watah, 
De ark ob rushes keeps 'im dry. 

Along comes Pharaoh's lovely daughter, 
Den litt'e Moses could not cry. 

Chorus — 

Den 'twas: "Hush, my baby, hush my 
Moses, bogie man '11 ketch yo' if yo' cry ; 

Hush, my baby, hush my Moses, papa is 
comin' toodge yo' by an' by." 



OFF ON PFGASUS. 19 



0, de kings an' queens an' dukes and princes, 
De presidents an' statesmen high, 

All hear dis song an' it soon convinces 
Dem dat der mothers used to sigh 

Chorus — 

An' sing : " Hush, my baby," etc. 

It's de same ole story tole right ober, 

As year on year de ages fly ; 
For it's baby, school-boy, hero, lover — 

Again we hear de baby cry. 

Chorus — 
Den it's '* Hush, my baby," etc. 



HOW WE KNOW SHE IS HERE. 

'Tis not the tuneful birds, 
'Tis not the lowing herds. 
The politicians' words. 
That tell me spring is here. 

'Tis not the muddy streets. 
The rains, the hails, the sleets, 
The garden truck one eats, 
That tell me spring is here. 

'Tis not the budding trees, 
The hum of busy bees. 
But 'tis the '^ poems " — these 
Tell me that spring is here. 



20 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



MOSES IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Future posterity 

With some severity 
The laws of old Moses may mention ; 

But with all their laurels, 

A code of such morals, 
Will still be beyond their invention. 

The learned professors, 

And other aggressors, 
At our Bible turn up their noses ; 

And books on psychology, 

With screeds on biology, 
Are hurled at the head of poor Moses. 

In fact he's bombarded 

By gnomes once discarded — 

Opinions so cheerfully given — 
That one now supposes 
That God-fearing Moses 

Is back to the wilderness driven. 

For our great agnostic. 

May be very caustic, 
And even triumph as a scoffer ; 

He may be a terror, 

To point out its error. 
But, instead, no Bible can offer. 

No re-incarnation 

Or cosmic inflation. 
Can ever supplant the old story ; 

The Buddhist or Brahmin, 

Who cares to examine. 
Will find it the pathway to glory. 



OFF OX PEGASUS. 21 



No mental philosoph}^ 

Or modern theosophy, 
Can change the things taught by our mothers ; 

They were our lirst preachers, 

And confiding teachers, 
We believed them — and doubt all others. 

Then down with false teaching, 

And give us the preaching 
To heart and head equally suited ; 

Preach God ever living. 

And love that's forgiving; 
Religion that can't be disputed. 



OLD SAWS— ''AN OPEN WINTER." 

The weather cock crows and takes a squint or 
Two at the corn-husk, says, '* open winter." 

When Foster says, '' 'Twill freeze as hard as flint or 
Cast iron." Look for an '' open winter." 

The musk rat goes high with straw and lint for 
To make his nest. Oh, an '' open winter." 

On groundhog day an umbrageous tint or 
Shadow — sure sign of an '' awful winter." 

If for a seal skin, wife gives a hint or 
Suggestion— oh, sad heart! ''open winter." 

Old Farmer Hayseed " pays the poor printer." 
This is a sign of an " open winter." 

Dear reader, these wise rhymes which so iuter- 
Mix with wit, reveal an " open winter." 



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COMMENCEMENT SPEECHES. 

As the ide s of June are at hand we thought that it would be a 
capital idea to give a few suggestions to those w^ho are making ar- 
rangements to graduate from the schools and colleges of our land. In 
enteriijg upon a task of this kind we fully contemplate the sacred 
ground upon which we tread; for if there is anything on this mun- 
dane sphere which a young man holds sacred above all others, it is 
the cut-and-dried essay or speech to be delivered on commencement 
night. And if the young man were asked what three things he 
wants on his tombstone whrn he dies, he would say: "The time I 
was born, when I graduated and w^hen I die." 

For the first few minutes you are out on the stage it is not 
necessary for you to say a word. Just stand at your ease, as though 
you were taking a look at the bathers at Coney Island ur Long 
Branch. Don't get rattled, take your time to it until the audience takes 
cognizance of your outlines. Don't appear to have a grain of sense. 
Just stare at space or look at one of the vacant corners of the room. 
Don't appear to know anything, or give the least expression to your 
face, for anything of this kind would piove very damaging, and you 
would not get your diploma. For the boy who graduates these days, 
and appears to have any sense, is always made the laughing stock by 
his companions, and is given inferior situations by friends. 

If you are a rich man's son, remain standing a minute until the 
usher can run a car load of presents upon your left hand side, while 
a wheelbarrow load of bouquets is unloaded at your right. Only 
smile at these and give your poorer class-mates a withering, sarcastic 
look. 

If you are a poor man's son there is danger of the audience dis- 
covering a trace of intelligence in your make-up, and if this is discov- 
ered it is fatal to your future welfare ; for you will always try t o be 
somebody and rise in the world, and this will always keep you poor. 
Don't speak at all if you can possibly avoid it, just stand in your 
favorite position for a few minutes until you hear some boy in the 
gallery ring a chestnut bell, then make a slight bow to the audience 
and smile as you back your way to a chair where you can sink down 
in a cushion of beautiful flowers, as one of your classmates rises to 
recite. 



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If j^ou say anything at all, let it be unintelligible. Keep your 
eyes cast down and your muscle cast up. When the professor hands 
you your diploma, merely grunt a few syllables so no one in the room 
can hear you. If you have to speak out, if you do say any- 
thing, say it in the vilest slang, the same that you use on the play 
ground and to chums that you meet on the street. Let this be the 
form of your effusion of eloquence: 

Ladies and Gentlemen: 

I. 



I come not here to talk. Talk is cheap 
And I hate anything cheap. We are slaves! 
The bright sun rises — if it rises at all, 
And sets.mebbe, and his last rays fall 
On a race who sell out cheap as dirt. 
Not cheap ni^^ers, I don't mean that. 
But base, ignoble slaves ; slaves to a horde 
Of politicians, boodle aldermen or bosses 
Who want to run the town their own way ; 
Strong in some few rolls of boodle, which tells 
In these days of money-making and shystering. 



11. 



Each hour, dark fraud 
Or open rapine, or protected murder 
Cries out against them. But this very day. 
An honest man, my room-mate— there he sits — 
Was bought — bought like a dog by one who wore 
The badge of '' Boodle; " because, forsooth, 
He tossed not his ready cap in air 
And yelled fur de gang. Betcher life 
I don't yell fur de gang, no matter 
How much de boodler boss beefs. 



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III. 

I had a brother onct — a gracious boy, 

Full of gentleness, a chewer of tutti frutti, 

"Who gambled with the small boy 

On the sidewalks, and raised a howl 

At night time with a pain in his stomach. 

Betcher life he ^ as a winner. 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years — 

Left my side one day to go a-fishiog. 

Election day was at hand, and the young man 

Was hired by de gang to rush the growler 

And chase the duck up two flights of stairs 

To the Central Committee room, where he, 

For two cold dollars, was bought to vote 

And cast his influence wid de gang. 

A false moustache upon his face was placed, 

And he was voted o'er and o'er. 

After holding tickets all day on the corner, 

The November rain running down his back. 

They filled him full of bug juice and let him 

Take a nap in the gutter while they 

Counted out the votes in the evening. 

IV. 

For vengeance ! Rouse ye patriots and see 

That de gang get no other man so cheap ! 

Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl 

To see them bought Have ye fair daughters? Look 

To see them cast their votes in the right direction. 

And finally take the political job ofi" your hands! 

This is young America that was fought 

Bled and died for by our forefathers. 

And I must say right here before that bell — 

That chestnut bell, rings me down, that I think 

The politics of America should be disinfected. 

Sent to the laundry or purified in some way. 



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A FAEEWELL BANQUET. 



[When Superintendent of Police, Thos. J. Farrell, was preparing to visit his 
mother in Ireland, a few years ago, the newspaper editors and correspondents of 
Dayton gave him a surprise in the way of a complimentary banquet. Quite a number 
of local orators and literary people were present. After Mr. Farrell had become 
reconciled to the complete surprise, Mr. John R. Tomlinson was appointed toast- 
master. He first called upon the author to respond to a toast. On the following day 
Mr. Tomlinson said in the Dayton Journal: 

" James Buchanan Siders was the first victim, but as the saying goes, a newspaper 
man never loses his head, and he was ready, and after some preliminary remarks, 
he delivered the following characteristic effort:"] 



FAREWELL TO FARRELL. 

There's " nothing new," to-night, my boys ; 

No death, no fire, no strike, no grief ; 
All hearts are free and light, my boys — 

We banquet th' gallant Irish Chief. 



For once there'll be no " beat," my boys. 
No paragraph, however brief ; 

We're here to drink and eat, my boys. 
In honor of our gallant Chief. 



So here's to a son of Erin's Isle, 
A terror to each crook and thief — 

Look to the stars and let us smile. 
Here's health to the gallant Irish Chief. 



Here's to the trip across the brine, 
A safe return, to our relief ; 

A friendly pledge in sparkling wine- 
Here's to the gallant Irish Chief! 



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GROUND HOG DAY REFLECTIONS. 

*^ Sausage," smiling in his sleeve, 
Scoffs the sign he don't believe ; 
For full well the ''ground hog" knows 
That the blizzards and the snows 
Are not over. 

But that poets now will sing 
Of the flowers, birds and spring ; 
And the editors in glee (?) 
Will rejoice of course to be 
In such clover. 

Basket, box and pigeon-hole, 
All contain a "flow of soul," 
'Till the " muses " in the room 
Seem to drive away the gloom 
Which takes cover. 

Talk about your happy man 
Built upon a liberal plan ; 
'Tis the editor in spring. 
When the local poets sing 
And '*gush over." 



WE'VE BEEN THERE. 

Behold the maid on dress parade ; 

And see that smile so tender ; 
Her suit so neat is not complete, 

Without the silk suspender ! 

She drops her fan and there's no man 
Near by who can attend her — 

She stoops to get it, but she'll regret it- 
Away goes her suspender ! 

Give her a nail, a horse-shoe nail. 
And pray now, don't offend her; 

She's in a stew — the button flew — 
She's broken her suspender ! 



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DON'T MONKEY WITH THE BUZZ SAW. 

D© not monkey for a minute 
With the fast revolving saw ; 

For it whizzes, 

And it sizzes, 
As it fills to satisfaction, 
Its ever hungry maw. 

0, see the quick gyrations 
Of the double-breasted saw ! 

How it hurries, 

How it flurries, 
With its eager mastication, 
As it eats its dinner raw. 

O, yes it is revolving, 

That simple-looking saw ! 

Do not doubt me, 

Do not flout me ! 

There ! Go call a skilled physician, 

To bandage up his paw ! 



THE SPHYNX CONSULTED. 

THE POET. 

^' 0, sphynx of untold learning. 
For wisdom I am yearning ; 
The springtime is returning — 
What shall we do? 

'J he streets are full of sloshes ; 
The women with goloshes. 
The men in mackinstoshes. 
Can't wade 'em through." 

THE SPHYNX. 

^' The mystery I'll unravel ; 
For should you wish to travel. 
Pray, take your own gravel — 
Pegasus, Adieu." 



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'' DAYTONIA/' 

[The following was written on the back of a $1,000 check which the author had 
received for one of his poems, which (check) he had in his inside pocket while at the 
Grand Opera House witnessing " Daytonia." The drama was a local affair produced 
at the Centenial celebration of the city of Dayton, Ohio, by local talent.] 

Say, did yon hear about it ? Did you bend your anxious ears, 
While the galleries resounded with those wild exultant cheers ? 
Did you see the hands a-clapping in those ecstacies complete ? 
Did you watch the footlights glimmer as the rooters stamped their 

feet? 
Though the city's history merits many very hearty cheers, 
We never, never can forget " our first one hundred years." 

Tis a show as great as Barnum — Forepaugh — Eice & Sells', 

'Tis as fine as games Olympian, of which the history tells ; 

There has not been a plot, I know, so dangerously coy, 

Since the days of that white wooden horse and red-haired girl of Troy ; 

Though future fortunes fail us, our hearts 'twill joyful make 

To tell our great-grand children how '' Daytonia " took the cake. 



THE CIRCULATION LIAR IN HEAVEN. 

When Gabriel blows his trumpet, 

And Satan stirs his fire, 
And spirits on this planet 

Go up a little higher, 
I fancy there'll be music 

By the heavenly choir, 

And the sweetest player 
Will play upon the lyre. 

And when the other angels 

To greatness thus aspire, 
That good old soul, St. Teter, 

Will call his harpers nigher 
And say, '' You can ne'er excel him 

With e'en a harp of fire. 
He on an earthly paper 

Was the circulation liar." 



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COMMENCEMENT NIGHT AT ETON. 

[The following reply was sent to the committee when the author was asked to be 
present at the high school commencement, and to represent his class at the alumni 
t)anquet in the evening. It was read by a class-mate with much success.] 

Dear John, Bess an' the rest of 'em ; I can't be there to talk ; 
You know full well the story in life's literary walk; 
I fain would see the tender youths launch their ships aright ; 
But I can't be there to-night, dear John, I can't be there to-night. 

Tes, 'tis Commencement week at Eton — the girls are dressed in white. 
An' they're a primpin' an' a smilin' upon the left an' right; 
They're a sighin', speechify in' — got the reins without a check. 
An' the boy is still a-standin' on the awful burnin' deck ! 

An' Mary has her little lamb, an' he is still the rage — 

Tou'd scarcely expect Mary to speak in public on the stage ; 

An' Iser is rollin' rapidly, I can hear an' see it all ; 

An' not a drum is heard, not a funeral note to stop Commencement ball. 

Oh, pilot, 'tis a fearful night, there's danger on the deep. 
And unless Ulysses defends the pass we'll never get to sleep. 
At midnight in his guarded tent, the marshal sleepin' lies ; 
But graduates still have the floor an' are talkin' awful wise. 

The boys are tellin' all they know, an' are lookin' mighty fine — 
An' some are born at Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine ; 
But curfew shall not ring to-night, they've sworn it an' they know; 
For it's Commencement week at Eton an' they're goin' to have a show. 

The clock strikes one ; we take no note of time ; 

On with the dance! 'tis life's written page in rhyme ; 

I hear 'em chargin' Chester an' see 'em urgin' Stanley on ; 

But I can't be there to defend the class with Abe an' cousin John. 

For I must be up an' doin' with a gall for any fate. 
Or judgment day '11 come along an' find me swingin' on the gate — 
So, of all sad words of tongue or pen — an' you'll agree I'm right — 
It's Commencement week at Eton an' I can't be there to-night. 



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PERT PREDICTIONS. 

I knew it, I knew I'd be a prophet some time ; 

Mother Shipton nor Isaiah 

Were ever on the 'May " I 
Intend to tell you for a penny here in rhyme. 

I knew it, I knew the old girl 'd soon get her pay ; 

Poor old Lilli'kalani, 

Will get the bread and manna 
She wants for that old tott'ring throne we took away. 

I knew it, I knew that the House wouldn't say it nay ; 

Through respect for Hill and Grover 

And that " awful turning over," 
I knew they'd pass the Wilson Bill some day. 

I knew it, I knew that they'd settle the strike that way ; 

'Twas a case of arbitration, 

Or they'd blow up the Nation 
To let Eugene Debs have his little say. 

I knew it, I knew 'twould never, never do. 

For the Japs to be a Nation, 

Or fight for a higher station. 
For the John Chinamen have always had the cue. 

I knew it, I knew that our base ball team could play ; 

So I bet on Cincinnati, 

And now I'll get the hat I 
Won from Jimmy Whitcomb Riley t'other day. 

I knew it, I knew we'd have a new depot ; 
In nineteen hundred and fifty, 
When we are full grown and thrifty. 

Fond promises and " white-wash " will then cease to " go.'^ 



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ME. SO AND SO. 

There lived a man — as good a man as eye could wish to see — 

He never drank a drop too much, or got upon a spree ; 

He studied hard and late at night, and taught the village school, 

And brought to right the erring lad who sought to be a fool ; j 

He made the school a stepping stone and studied for the bar. 

Among the lesser legal lights he was a shining star ; 

The books he wrote were numerous, his paintings not a few, 

His patent-rights were well secured and very useful too ; 

And ev'ry maiden sighed, 

And ev'ry youngster cried : 
** How great a man, how good a man is Mr. So and So ! 
Why is he not a Senator, does anybody know? " 

His book of poems was complete and hard to criticise. 

And at the Exposition too, his paintings took the prize ; 

His speeches were the daily talk, and heard with great applause, 

He saw his country's greatest needs, and how to shape her laws ; 

Yet he was poor, he always had a very great expense. 

Protecting of his copy-rights, his patents and his sense ; 

At length he was a candidate, and all the village knew 

That he was much the better man, but couldn't pull him through ; 

And ev'ry maiden sighed, 

And ev'ry youngster cried : 
" How great a man, how good a man is Mr. So and So ! 
Why can't they make him Senator, does anybody know?" 

So bowed with grief he sought the West, and opened there a mine, 

He struck at once the richest vein, some 20 carats fine ; 

And since he had been doted on and favored thus by Fate, 

He sold his claim and came again back to his native State ; 

And as he had ^* a ton of gold," as ev'ry body said. 

They flattered him and toasted him and ** bow'd the servile head ; " 

And when election came again, the cry was, "So and Sol " 

** How came he to be Senator, does anybody know ? " 
Yet oft it will be said 
By those who bow'd the head ; 

**No matter what his merits were, they ne'er would have bt^en toKl, 
Had he not have struck a vein and got a ton of gold ! " 



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THE MOrHER-IN-LAW JOKE. 

There never was artist who learned to draw, 
To etch or sketch in the umbers raw, 
Who didn't attempt when unchecked by awe. 
To deftly cartoon his mother-in-law. 

There never was poet who with eclat, 
Wrote of the jokes he heard and he saw. 
Without breaking forth in " a springtime thaw," 
About that old darling, "my mother-in-law." 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law, 
O, how I love the wag of thy jaw ! 
It sinks in my breast and hangs in my craw, 
My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law ! 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law ! 
To hear thy voice I hearken in awe ; 
O, art thou coming to pick a new flaw, 
And tarry awhile, my mother-in-law ? 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law. 
How I hone for a shake of thy paw ! 
How for another can I care a — straw. 
My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law ? 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law. 
Over my grief come help me to chaw ; 
And give it unto me so terribly raw. 
That 111 remember thee, mother-in-law ! 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law. 

At my vitals continue to gnaw, 

O, kill me by inches with fang and with claw. 

For being a fool, my mother-in-law ! 

My mother-in-law, my mother-in-law. 

The d earest old lady that ever I saw ! 

Come fill with remorse my rest-hungry maw. 
And let me die young, 0, mother-in-law ! 




iPage 34, Part I.] 



More lovely than a bride, 
All robed in white I spied 
An angel at my side, 

Resigned I thought to fate- 
So beautiful and wise ! 
I dared not criticise 
Her form, her speech, her eyes- 

The sweet girl graduate 1 



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THE SUN-SET GUN. 

The following little poem was written when the author attended Governor 
Patrick's funeral at the Soldiers' Home July 30, 1888. Governor Patrick's 
remains were consigned to the grave in the evening about the time the sun was sink- 
ing behind the Western horizon, and at that moment the sun-set gun was fired and 
the flag lowered, as is the custom at the Home : 

They buried the gallant old hero 

At set of the summer day's sun ; 
And as in the grave they laid him, 

They signaled the sun-set gun. 

Tears stood in the eyes of the soldiers, 

For the sands of a life just run, 
And sad to them was the echo 

Of that funeral sun-set gun. 

They^d faced the charging enemy. 

Had ne'er known or felt a fear, 
But death had claimed their hero, 

And wrung from their eyes a tear. 

They sighed as to rest they laid him, 
When his earthly battles were done ; 

For soon they knew that the angel 
Would signal their sun-set gun. 



THE "CIRCULATION LIAR." 

**Our circulation," the book-keeper said. 
And looked at the pressman and shook his head- 

** Our circulation, I'm happy to say. 
Is on the increase from day to day." 

^^ You merchants, if you expect to arise, 
Should look to your interests and advertise ; 
For business, these times, is done with the tide, 
Our patrons, well served, are well satistied." 



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*' But as to the paper f cross the street, 
Tve heard complaints about that sheet — 
No circulation — and just put it down, 
That ours is bigger than any in town." 

'* No matter at all to us what they claim ; 

A few more thousands would cause them no shame- 
** Sworn 20,000," is now^ their head line— 

Our * devil/ however, got them down fine. 

He hid in their cellar, (I must confess), 
And counted the clicks made by their press, 
And found them to be unscrupulous liars ; 
The fact is, they print about twenty quires! " 



THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE. 

When winter's days were rough, 
Wrapped in her boa and muff, 
With cunning bangs a-£luff, 

She passed my window pane. 
When birds and bees and flowers, 
Came with the April showers, 
She charmed the winged hours, 

That flew athwart my brain. 

When the roses of the May 
Proclaimed Commencement day, 
Not distant far away, 

'Twas then we were to meet — 
When the seniors one and all, 
At the stern professor's call, 
Should assemble in the hall, 

I was to have a treat. 

More lovely than a bride, 
All robed in white I spied 
An angel at my side, 

Resigned I thouglit to fate — 
So beautiful and wise ! 
I dared not criticise 
Her form, her speech, her eyes — 

The sweet girl graduate ! 



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THE NEW DEPOT POET. 

[With apologies to the railroad companies, believing that when persuasion^ 
'fliience and money fail to move the stubborn hearts of syndicates, poetry, well 
directed, will do the work.] 

I am just as smooth a poet as you'll ever want to see, 
And I'd like the situation Alf . Tennyson has had ; 

All the people of this city and Miamisburg agree, 
That the way I reel off verses makes poor Jim Riley sad. 

If you want the depot roasted don't forget to make a call, 

I am ready with the lurid, effervescent quill. 
There is no doubt or question on the hardness of my gall, 

No editor has ever had the heart to keep me still. 

Don't go down to Cincinnati where the poets make you sick ; 

They'll tire you with the sameness of their everlasting verse — 
Yes, there's Haxby, but dear reader, the fellow is a stick ; 

And several other yokels who are slower than a hearse. 

No, dear reader, when a poem on the ^* depot " you desire, 
Come to one who is posted on the situation dire, — 

Come to one who's "inspired" with the true poetic fire— 
A man with double gauges on the boiler of his ire. 



Once Mary had a little bunch 

Of silk with feathers on it, 
And though it weighed but half an ounce, 

Twas an eighty dollar bonnet. 

But IVIary changed her little mind, 
And changed her bonnet's size, 

And thinks because it costs so nuich 
She'll make it scrape the skies. 



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THE EDITOR. 

[The following characteristic response was made to the subject, "The Editor," 
at a banquet of the alumni of the college where the author graduated. The response 
was printed in a " fraternity paper."] 

PRELUDE. 

The editor sat in his easy chair, 

Thinking of what to write ; 
A-rubbing the spot where once the hair 

Was snatched away in a fight ; 
A Satanic leer of what was so dear, 

Then played on his face from ear to ear. 

The exchanges lay stretched on the floor. 

Cut with a slit in each breast ; 
The editor's eyes had traveled them o'er, 

And carefully selected the best ; 
The scissors, well-worn, from duty looked up 

And smiled at the paste which hung on the cup. 

And the editor heard a knock at the door, 

And reached to his hip for his gun. 
And said to himself, " Here's trouble once more, 

And they've got me where I can't run. 
Good cofiins are dear and pine boxes are few, 

But I'll just let him in and see what he'll do." 

So, pistol in hand, the portal swung wide, — 

Behold ! 0, sirs, what the editor spied ! 
There stood before him a man with a smile, 

Who said that he liked the editor's style — 
Had come to renew, and pay all arrears — 

The editor bathed the man's feet with his tears. 

Yes, my classmates and friends, I have been an editor ever since 
I left these classical, or I should say as regards myself, philosophical 



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halls of my alma mater, and now I am going to tell you how to get 
rich, and give you some of my experience in the West. 

I have learned that an editor knows less about conducting a 
newspaper than any one in the community. In the unequal race he 
cannot hold a tallow dip to any of his readers. They all can " run a 
paper'' better, more popularly, more pleasing and more newsy than 
the editor can. Their ideas ** harmonize " in such a remarkable way. 
For instance, the Congressman thinks the paper is no good on earth, 
unless it publishes two pages of the Congressional Record each day ; 
the banker thinks the paper should contain a history of the banks, 
the bonds, notes and give each day all the news of Wall Street and 
the Chicago exchange ; the physician thinks that an editor who pub- 
lishes such stuff has paresis of the medJpa oblongata ; the grocer 
wants the prices of his goods and the markets set in two line pica ; 
the lawyer, mechanic, and every man who has one idea desires and 
expects the whole paper dedicated to his hobby. And if the editor 
does not do this, then exceptions are filed against his ability as an 
editor. So it goes the world over until the editor is just as well 
accustomed to hearing the ravings of the kicker as he is to hearing 
the tick of his Waterbury watch. 

The experiences at a newspaper office are amusing as well as 
pathetic, sometimes. A man came into the office the other day and 
said : 

^*I don't want my paper any longer." 

" Ah ! " said the book-keeper, " We are not going to print it any 
longer. We think twenty inches long enough for a paper for two 
cents. Besides we do not want to get a new press just now to print a 
long paper." 

Miss Tene Hafto came up mad as a hornet last night, because we 
said that the butter we got from Clod pole was excellent. She wanted 
it distinctly understood that Clodpole's butter was not near the but- 
ter she made, that it was too white, full of white specks of milk and 
literally cemented together with hairs. We tried to explain to her, 
but she would not have it, and left the room foaming at the mouth 
and threatening to commit suicide if the paper was left at her door 
again. 

Political life and political patrons are much worse. Tliey con- 
tinually beset the editor for favors, and never neglect to call to his 



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mind that he is a fool and ought to adopt other tactics. We are 
told one day if we advocate a sound money policy and hold out 
for a gold standard that the earth will be cursed with bands of heart- 
less nabobs of the East. We are told the next day that if free silver 
prevails that, like Belshazzar, we shall have to crawl on our bellies 
and eat grass. One faction wants one thing and another faction wants 
another. You can see, my friends, that an editor's life is not such a 
downy bed of ease as it looks. Then, editors have such endearing 
terms they use in referring to one another ! I see in the papers every 
day such terms as "low down villain," " sneaking hypocrite," " hydra- 
headed hulk," "simpering simpleton," " irretrievable idiot," "slimy, 
sneaking snake" and the like, which would call for pistols and coffee 
among men of any other profession, but these are considered mere 
terms of endearment among editors. 

Then, my boys, the editor's reward on this earth is so much more 
desirable, so much more worthy of the man than that of most men. 
He gets free tickets to the shows, free rides on the cars, free lunch, 
free soup, and when he becomes too old to work, he gets a free ride to 
a Soldiers' Home, a poor house or a "quiet retreat," where he 
"puffs" cheap cigars on holidays instead of "puffing" politicians, or 
human animalculse who have to be " puffed " to keep them above the 
ever dashing waves of obsecurity. 

Then, there is another nerve-racker or pace-maker for the swear- 
ing machine, with whom we must contend. He is the 

INTELLIGENT COMPOSITOR. 

It is a fact, and ah, how reluctantly we own it is a fact, that we 
are often led astray by a trifle ! Sometimes when we have our marks 
set high and we see in the hands of the fates the shimmer of the 
scepter by which the destiny of our aspirations are ruled, we shudder, 
as it were, for fear that the thread upon which our existence depends 
will be ruthlessly cut asunder, and our unsung praises fall as an air 
castle to the ground. 

So it is in newspaper w^ork of every day life. The editor or the 
reporter finds his clear-cut metaphor, his poetic simile, his well-kempt 
apostrophe or his studied irony, slaughtered, aye verily, killed or 
rendered worse than meaningless by some careless sling or rent of the 



OFF ON PEGASUS. 39 

compositor. Yes, the "compositor" is the great mischief maker of 
the printing office. And how often does the editor get into trouble 
by an oversight of the same! How often is his blood curdled, his 
brain set in a whirl, his heart broken, his spirit bowed down with 
grief by the compositor — the type setter! 

It was not long ago that we received a basket of strawberries 
from a beautiful young lady and endeavored to thank her through 
the paper, but the compositor came to the front and called them 
^^ rawberries." 

The poor girl came the next day, and asked our pardon saying 
that she did not think for a moment that we preferred them " cooked." 

A pocket-book was found in the street the other day, and a poor 
nervous reporter mentioned the fact in a squib, but when the paper 
came out it had the boy made of leather instead of the pocket-book. 
It said, "A purse was picked up on Main Street by a boy made of 
leather." 

We sent in an " ad " the other day for a gentleman who had lost 
a gold-headed cane. When the paper came out, the gentleman had 
the gold head, as it read, " Lost — By a gentleman with a gold head, a 
cane, etc." 

** For rent, a house by a gentleman, etc.," was changed to ^' For 
rent, a house, by a gentleman with two stories, bay windows and a 
cellar." 

The police reporter explained that a fire occurred from *'a de- 
fective flue," but the disciple of Gutenberg made it read, " a detective 
flew." 

But I must not magnify the '^ pleasures " of the editor. 

All of you young graduates should know that it is not the Latin, 
or the Greek, the calculus or the table of logarithms that make the 
editor. It is the adaptability first, and then the mental discipline you 
get by the studies you pursue, that helps you to succeed. Every 
young man should have some object in view when he enters college, 
and some mental plan mapped out as to his future vocation, when he 
receives his diploma; but he should never ** fall into journalism" 
when he finds he has failed at everything else. Such a man should 
not think of supplying the "long-felt want." 



40 OFF ON PEGASUS. 



THE ENVOY. 

Behold the college graduate ! 

He courts the fates and muses, 
And as he leaves the college gate 

A wandering course he chooses. 

He's quite uncertain what to do 

In taking a profession — 
Decides it best, though, to eschew 

The pulpit, with discretion. 

He sails and rides and tramps about. 

In search of fame and glory — 
Returns again, soul-sick, no doubt, 

To tell the oft-told story. 

He hears, at length, a guiding voice — 
Minerva ! watch his caper ! 

He makes the "long-feit want" his choice- 
He starts a country paper ! 




PART II. 



From the shining flame of knowledge, 
Brothers, you each have a spark, 

Fan it with persistent courage, 
It will guide you through the dark. 

From each book, each life, or sermon. 

Gather fuel for its flame, 
It will light you o'er the river, 

Though it may not give you fame. 

Hide it not beneath a bushel, 
Let it all around you shine ; 

For in helping hands extended, 
Are the sermons most divine. 

Never put aside the talents, 
That the Master gives to you. 

Be not like the slothful servant, 
Who was banished from His view. 



From the little lake Itasca, 

Bursting forth, a streamlet goes, 

Gaining strength from rill and brooklet. 
Till a Mississippi flows. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



So, each day, increase your learning, 
Gather from each book so rife, 

By and by you'll have a river, 
Reaching to the Sea of Life. 

Don't expect to be a hero. 

Only be a co7?iino7i man, 
Be yourself, and true to nature. 

Copy not another's plan. 

O'er the sea a mighty city, 
Built on seven hills, they say. 

Mistress of surrounding nations, 
Was not finished in a day. 

Stone on stone, then brick and mortar, 
Workmen labored hour by hour. 

Growing old in years and dying, 
Ere the city gained its power. 

So, my friends, to fame aspiring. 

Don't expect it at a blow ; 
For the gods who do the grinding, 

Let their mills grind very slow. 




SONGS OF A PLEB. 



MY POEM. 

Among the trees where Nature weaves 
Fair garlands of the whisp'ring leaves, 
I heard my poem as 'twas sung 
By ev'ry little flut'ring tongue. 

And when I walked the white sea sands, 
Where struggling waves reach up their hands, 
' Perchance in some forgotten lore, 
I heard my poem sung, once more. 

When in a peasant's cot I lay, 
To rest secure till dawn of day, 
So deftly, on the thatch, the rain 
Rehearsed my poem, there, again. 

My poem — ah, how can I tell 

Its music or its magic spell 

With words so feeble that they seem 

To mock my consecrated dream ! 



PURE IS THE HEART. 

Long is the road that hath no ending, 
Straight is the path tliat hath no bcmling. 
Pure is the heart with no pretending, 

That keopeth in tlie narrow way ; 
And few are tliey, vxitliout olfending, 

To answer Ilini on Jiuli^mont Hay. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



Many are the roads, broad, descending, 
Many are the mortals onward wending, 
Caring not for the wrath impending, 

As often they are led astray. 
O, reach thy hands, in truth, befriending 

A brother fallen by the way ! 



A BLUSH. 



"From every blush that kindles in your cheeks. 
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring, 
To revel in those roses." The heart speaks 
Altho' the tongue be still. A little thing 
It is ; yet purifies the soul, as rain 
Imbrues the air, and feeds the thirsty grain. 



The lily may be fair, but then the rose, 
With blushing petals set with sparkling dew, 
Is best of all — the fairest flower that grows. 
The sweetest, most enchanting to the view ; 
But 'twould not be so fair, as thus it sips 
The dew, had it no blush upon its lips. 



Then, school girls, blush ; and in the joyous blush. 
Show that you are refined and can perceive, 
And you, fair maiden, let the currents rush 
To your cheeks, so in faith we may believe 
You have a heart ; and lover, like the morn, 
As she meets the sun, your pale face adorn. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 



HIDDEN TREASURES. 

There was a bird with russet crest, 

Which sang in the deep, deep wildwood, 
In vain I searched for his hidden nest, 

In the bright, bright days of childhood ; 
But he always sat in a tree remote, 

To sing his sweetest measure. 
And while enchanted by his note, 

I failed to find his treasure. 



O, days have come and passed away, 

And the bird has ceased his singing. 
But still within my soul to-day, 

I can hear his music rmging; 
The lessons then so unforeseen, 

Shall be remembered ever, 
Until old Time with sickle keen, 

Life's silver thread shall sever. 



For thus I find in after days. 

While seeking worldly pleasures. 
We're lured away from duty's ways. 

And miss life's hidden treasures ; 
And learn too late in pleasure's train — 

The thoughtless take unheeding — 
That our reward's an aching brain, 

A broken heart left bleeding. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



THE DEAD PRESIDENT. 

The pulse of a Nation now throbs, 
Its music is muffled and low, 

Its breath is stifled with sobs, 
Its people are stricken with woe. 



And the sable emblem so sad, 
Is seen o'er the threshold at last ; 

The flag of our Freedom, once glad. 
Is hanging to-day at half-mast. 



Columbia sheddeth a tear 

For the act a demon hath done, 

And kneeling beside of the bier, 
She buries a dutiful son. 



In a land where liberty dwells, 

V/here tyrants were slain long ago. 

The heart of the patriot swells 
To witness a hero laid low. 



Great God, our dear Father, forgive, 
And pardon the ill-guided man. 

For so long as Freedom shall live, 
The hearts of the people ne'er can. 

Sept. 26, 1881. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



THE SENTINEL. 

O'er the sea in a distant land, 
Where rivers wash the golden sand, 
In forests deep, recluse and wild, 
Where elands feed, so meek and mild, 
Where wild beasts come to feed at will. 
Beside the lake so clear and still, 
There is a bird with watchful eye, 
Which utters oft its warning cry. 



When its companion lies asleep. 
And Zulu-men unto him creep, 
Or when he wends his unknown way 
Through jungles dense at close of day, 
The crouching lions from the lair 
Await to spring ere he's aware ; 
But lest they take him by surprise, 
The bird forewarns him with its cries. 



, Vice is the savage with his spear, 
Whose stealthy steps thou canst not hear, 
Or crouching lion in his lair, 
That seeks thy ruin everywhere; 
Thy conscience is the bird, my friend, 
Which doth upon thy soul alteiul, 
O, heed its voice, awake and flee, 
Ere hidden foe o'ercometh thee ! 



SONGS OF A PLEB, 



DECORATION DAY. 

This morn, a glory-giving sun 
Smiled on a peaceful land, 

I heard the booming of a gun, 
The music of a band ; 

I saw the flow'rs, the grand display, 

And knew 'twas decoration day. 



The children came with eager hands, 
The maidens in their bloom. 

And to the music of the bands, 
They sought each soldier's tomb — 

Such heroes in a land like ours, 

Should have, at least, its rarest flow'rs. 



They sleep ; and many watchful stars 
Look down on them to-night, 

Recounting all their wounds and scars. 
And deaths, defending Right ; 

And while our star-set banner waves, 

Shall we forget their humble graves .? 



SEMPER IDEM. 

The same strange birds in the wildwoods sing, 
The same sweet blooms come with ev'ry spring, 
The same green vines to their towers cling — 
The same, yet ever, ever new. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 



The same old trees in the forest grow, 
The same old streams to the ocean flow, 
The same old peaks lift their caps of snow- 
The same, yet ever, ever new. 



The same old stars, resplendent, shine above, 
The same old spheres in their orbits move, 
The same sweet tale is ever told with love — 
The same, yet ever, ever new. 



AKIN. 



The river flowing to the sea, 
With gentle shimmer as it glides. 
Could not exist, but cease to be. 
Were there no rills to swell its sides. 



The tranquil lake, to nature true, 
Reflecting back her tender glow. 

Would soon exhale its waters blue. 
Were there no hidden springs below. 



And so would ev'ry human heart, 
That keeps the world, at large, akii\, 

Be thus deserted and apart, 

Were there no springs of love within. 



12 SONGS OF A FLEB. 



IN VAIN. 

There is no fragrant flower that blows, 

On shady brink or fertile plain, 
That hides its head so no man knows 
The rifted rock whereon it grows, 
Or where 'tis hid, as on he goes ; 

But what must bloom and die in vain. 



There is no song of warbling bird. 

No gentle note, no mellow strain. 
No oft repeated, trusting word, 
( A sign of hope, true or absurd, ) 
Lest it by eager ears be heard ; 
But what is sung or said in vain. 



There is no star that shines at night, 
Unseen, unknown in His domain, 

So far away that in its might 

It fails to send to us its light, 

Altho' it be intensely bright ; 

But what must shine and shine in vain. 



There is no throbbing, pulsing heart. 
That beats a march in life's dull train, 

That ha*^ not felt the thrilling smart 

From Cupid's shy, unerring dart, 

Which he to mortal can impart; 

But what has throbbed and beat in vain. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 13 

WHEN I AM DEAD. 

When I am dead, 
Come thou not near the humble grave, 

Where sleeps this head ; 
But let me have the rest I crave. 



For no one knows - 
The mysteries beyond the vale, 

Where mortal goes 
To take his place with spirits pale. 

Come thou not near, 
To sigh, or moan, or idly weep. 

Lest I should hear. 
And startle from my peaceful sleep. 

Let willows tall, 
And cedars green, the year around. 

Sing madrigal 
With softest breeze and gentlest sound. 

Let slender vine. 
And plant that loves the silent shade. 

Their leaves entwine, 
To hide the mound where I am laid. 



For all this life, 
Forever seems to be oppressed 

With cares and strife, 
And in the grave I may have rest. 



14 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Come thou not nigh; 
But pass me by with gentlest tread, 

And do not sigh, 
Or scoff to wake the restful dead. 



WEIRDNESS. 

O, blow, ye bleak winds, blow. 
Send forth thy drifting snow, 
And hide me from my woe. 

Blow thou thy cutting blast, 
And while it moans apast, 
I may find rest at last. 

O, hum thy god-lent strain 
On sash and window-pane, 
And soothe my aching brain. 

For I am faint from strife, 
From bustling toils of life. 
From cares and troubles rife. 

O, night-wind, sing a tune, 
O, clouds, shut out the moon, 
Then rest may follow soon. 

Then I shall sleep away 
The cares I had to-day, 
Ere dawns the morning gray. 



SONGS OF A FLEB, 15 

NATURE'S MELODIES. 

When rosy morn had tinged the skies, 

And forth I strolled for exercise ; 
From ev'rything seemed to arise 

All nature in her melodies. 

I sat beneath a forest tree, 

Where birdlings hopped about in glee, 
And through its boughs, most gloriously, 

The winds sang nature's melody. 

I stood where crystal waters poured, 

I saw the cataract which roared, 
And in the water's noisy spree. 

Was nature's deepest melody. 

I saw the vivid lightning flash, 

I stopped, and heard the awful crash, 
But in that crash so sharp and free. 

Was nature's loudest melody. 

'Twas night, weary, I lay abed, 

Storm-clouds, so dark, o'erhung my head ; 

Upon the roof the raindrops played 
Fond nature's sweetest serenade. 




1 6 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



THE MOUND BUILDERS. 

Far back in the flight of fleeting ages, 

When the infant Earth wore her first garments, 

Methinks the Creator let live and thrive — 

Ere the building of the fair Parthenon, 

Ere the Coliseum vi^as archetyped — 

A race unknow^n to us, save by their works. 

We behold the ruins of their cities — 

Cities built by sensible architects; 

But now buried deep away by the hand 

Of iron-hearted Time, who levels all; 

And our hearts are awed vv^ithin us, and we 

Recoil in mute amazement from the scene. 



Were they a people warlike in pursuits, 
Savage and sanguine, and the earthy mounds 
Rude places of defense ? Or shall we think 
Them rather to be as the Pyramids, 
Vaults in which to inter the departed? 
None is left to answer save the winds 
That kiss the face of Ocean and return 
* To play among the flowers and then repose 
In the deep valleys — cradles of the storm : 
'*They are concealed, still their works outlive them, 
Their citadels and their strange temples stood. 
And the swain broke the glebe with the droll ox, 
Which time hath chang'o to a shaggy bison, 
And turned him loose upon the field to feed. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



17 



Anon, silken dresses rustled in the streets, 

And then fortune's contending jewels shone, 

Then envious eyes encountered, and all 

Was explained away for the time at hand. 

Then lovers walked and wooed, and pulsing hearts 

Beat a high tenor to the w^inning w^ords 

Of a curious language, long forgot, 

And when the blush of silent evening came, 

The sounding lute won each one from his care, 

And when the hall in splendor shone, each one 

Came in attire of fashions unrevealed, 

And danced to mystic music in delight. 



So the world grew evil as it grew old. 

Till the elements warred with elements, 

And their contentions destroyed the living. 

Then time heaped clay upon their mould' ring forms, 

And decked their forsaken fields with a sward, 

And set green trees along the rivers." 

Thus the wind sang of the long departed, 

While along the streets busy crowds rushed forth, 

That had no thought for eternity gone ; 

And said to me : " Some idler of the future 

May sit and think your relics o'er and o'er, 

As you to-day have mused on those of yore. " 





1 8 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



SOME EYES. 

"They are the books, the arts, the academies, 
That show, contain and nourish all the world." 

The eyes — "the windows of the soul I " 
That view the world in all her pride ; 
Some love, some hate and some console, 
Some laugh, some cry and some deride. 



Some ask, assert and some entreat, 
Some penetrate you, some command, 
Some prowl you o'er from head to feet, 
Some flash and shock you as you stand. 



Some gentle, some calm, some sedate, 
Some mirthful, shining bright with glee ; 
Each has a story to relate — 
A meaning which we all may see. 



The fair blue eye which seems to take 
Its gentle color from the sky. 
Will learn and love and keep awake 
With ready question and reply. 



The eyes which are so large and bright. 
Show thoughtfid minds and tastes refined. 
And gray-eyed girls with soul and might, 
Will prove to you most true and kind. 



-Shakespeare. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 19 

Imaginative, false, untrue, 
The eyes most jealous and malign. 
Are eyes of green or vacant hue, 
The eves that see the least divine. 



The dark eye shows the gift of power, 
The black eye — oh, beware, I pray ! 
So fickle, changeful as the hour, 
Loves first, then hates within a day. 



Most faithful, though, of all in all, 
Are hazel eyes, so tame and good. 
Eyes to obey at ev'ry call, 
Eyes to esteem you if they would. 



O, eyes ! Oh, "windows of the soul ! " 
Let in the light from heaven's blue, 
That we may see from pole to pole, 
" The Good, the Beautiful, the True. " 



THE SEASONS. 

O, BREEZES OF THE SOUTH. 

O, breezes of the south, where orange blossoms grow , 
O, breezes of the south, where winters never snow, 
O, breezes of the south, for thee I'll ever sing, 
O, breezes of the south, sweet harbingers of spring ! 



20 SOJVGS OF A FLEB. 



O, breezes of the south, come touch me with thy wings, 
Come laden, bringing sweets from lands of Aztec kings, 
Come with thy singing birds and dancing butterflies. 
Come with thy freighted breath from summer tinted skies ! 



O, breezes of the south, drive Boreas from his throne, 
O, melt his icy heart, though be it hard as stone, 
O, breezes, drive him hence and let him dwell alone. 
Among the glist'ning icebergs in the Frigid zone. 



SPRING. (In April.) 

Here a shadow, there a beam ; 

Here a cloudlet, there a shower ; 
Here a brooklet, there a stream ; 

Here a leaflet, there a flower. 



Here a twitter, there a song. 
Here a caw, and there a chatter ; 

Then a silence of the throng ; 
Here again' s the pitter-patter ! 



Plow- boy, taken by surprise, 
Seeks a temporary shelter ; 

School girl, as she homeward hie?. 
Feels the drops begin to pelt her. 



SONGS OF A PLEB, 21 

Lo ! the clouds are all aglow, 

And the birds again are flying ; 
And there is a second bow, 

Just above the one that's dying. 

April, fourth child of the year, 

Nothing art thou ever staid in ; 
First a smile and then a tear ; 

Thou art like a pouting maiden ! 



IN MAY. 



Now is the Spring, 
When thrushes sing. 
And ev'ry thing 

Seems to wear a smile, 
The flowers bloom, 
The swallows come 
To make a home 

With us here awhile. 



The humming bees 
Among the trees, 
In tranquil breeze 

Sip their nectars sweet, 
And butterflies 
Fair as the skies 
Betimes surprise 

The flrtvv'rs at our feet. 



22 SONGS OF A PLEB, 



With anxious looks, 
The boys with hooks, 
Along the brooks 

Ramble all the day ; 
In dreamy whirls, 
The laughing girls 
Bedeck their curls 

In a sweet display. 



Along the way 
Where lovers stray 
The flow'rs so gay 

Fold their gentle wings ; 
For ev'ry day 
In merry May 
They'll hear them say 

Many artful things. 



O merry Spring, 
Spread out thy wing 
O'er ev'ry thing, 

Let Nature rejoice ; 
To Flora bring 
Thy offering, 
And let us sing 

In triumphant voice. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 23 



SUMMER. (In July.) 

I hear the busy reaper's song, 
An ever welcome strain ; 

As thus it sings it all day long, 
Down in the golden grain ; 

And as I listen to the chime, 

I know it tells of summertime. 



I hear the merry voices speak, 

I heard in days of yore ; 
When children play'd at " hide and seek " 

About the threshing floor ; 
As o'er the new mown hay they'd climb. 
In those sweet days of summertime. 



Beneath the stately elm tree's shade, 
When winds and skies were fine. 

Upon the bark with clumsy blade, 
I carved her name and mine ; 

But they've been changed by storm and rime, 

Since that fair day in summertime. 



When up some stream in search of bass, 

I hear the heron's cry. 
And from the tangled brakes of grass, 

I see the wood-ducks jly ; 
I think, ah me, oft in my prime, 
Have I thus strolled in summertime. 



24 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



And from the bridge, near by the mill, 

I watch the fishes glide, 
And see, betimes when winds are still, 

The glimmer of a side. 
And act my part in pantomime,^ 
With those who love the summertime. 



At eve, the tinkle of the fold, 
■ The lowing of the kine. 
Repeat the same old story told 

Unto this heart of mine ; 
While bubbling brooklet tells in rhyme 
About the dreamy summertime. 



The same old stars shine in the sky, 
The silent moon looks on, 

I hear the wood-bird's plaintive cry ; 
The cricket's song, anon ; 

And think that life, although sublime. 

Is but a fleeting summertime. 







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SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 25 



AUTUMN. ( Song of Boreas.*) 

My bands are playing in the pines, 
I am advancing with my lines ; 
You can hear my chariot wheels, 
When e'er the sylvan forest reels ; 
The river hears me, and stands still, 
His quiv'ring heart with spears I fill, 
A.nd thus before me all must fly, 
Ha, ha ! a king, a king reign I ! 



The birds, the flow'rs, and all of these. 

Which are friends of Hesperian breeze, 

Or which love the Zephrian lay, 

I either kill or drive away ; 

My banners through the sky I fling, 

As my dead foes lie withering ; 

My voice is heard both low and high. 

Ho, ho ! a king, a king reign I ! 



I come, I come ; the many feet 
Of my steeds are the snow and sleet ; 
My captains are the icebergs tall, 
The frozen sea, my strongest wall ; 
My helmets, shields and spears of ice 
Are made with many a sly device : 
You cannot stay me should you try ; 
Behold, a king, a king reign I. 

*The North Wind, believed to have been kept in a cave, and loosed at a certain 
bidding. Some say Boreas was ruler of the north wind and kept it in a bag. 

Mv 1 H. 



26 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



And with my warriors, tried and brave, 
Who lived within my hidden cave, 
Now, o'er the world I take my way, 
Chilling and killing night and day ; 
Ycur woolen shields and coats of fur, 
Will not my ravages deter ; 
My ear is deaf to ev'ry cry, 
For now, a king, a king reign I. 



WINTER. (January.) 

Bold January, 
Month, cold and dreary, 
The Year's first child, 
So fierce and wild ! 



How shall we greet you, 
Or, as friends, meet you. 
And thus beguile the time. 
In this our arctic clime ? 



" Oh men of learning. 
With your hearts yearning,- 
. Great men of all classes. 
Gay lads and fair lasses, 
I'll tell you all in rhyme. 
How you can pass the time : 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 27 

" Oh, I am cheerily, 
Yes, and so merrily 
Made with rare books, 
And pleasant looks, 
And fast sleigh-riding, 
Skating and sliding, 
Hunting and gaming, 
Catching and taming. 
Wooing and whiling, 
Winning and smiling. 
Funning and laughing. 
Chatting and chaffing, 
Learning and knowing, 
Coming and going, 
Cheering and choosing, 
Sitting and musing 
Around our fires burning, 
As the world goes turning. 

" Still my cold breath 
Hath chilled to death 
The leaves of flowers, 
And summer bowers ; 
So branches once stirr'd 
By breeze and wild bird, 
Ache with grim pain 
For summer again, 

" But you'll gladly endure 
My rough weather, Tm sure, 
For my many treasures. 
Little joys and pleasures, 
And be glad to see me here, 
As the first child of the Year." 



28 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



FONS JUVENTIS. 

Ho, westward, westward, westward! 

The sails are courting the wind ; 
A ship leaves on the billows, 

A river of foam behind. 



And smaller grows old Spain-land, 
A speck within the blue, 

Till in the dim horizon, 

It fades and sinks from view. 



The strange sea-birds come flying, 
And light upon the ship ; 

I fancy they are smiling 
At such a novel trip. 



The calm, old moon is shining, 
And often takes a peep. 

Then hides behind a cloudlet. 
That's floating o'er the deep. 



The zephyrs thro' the rigging, 
Sigh many a mocking tune ; 

While o'er the silver waters. 
The ship glides with the moon. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 29 



Sometimes a frighted mermaid 
Looks up from 'neath the wave, 

And shakes her silken tresses, 
Then hurries to her cave. 



But who's the happy sailor. 

Who's heart o'erflows with glee, 

At visions of his childhood. 
And fountain pure and free ? 



'Tis Juan Ponce de Leon, 
A daring man from Spain, 

In search of " Fons Juventis," 
Embarking on the main. 



He calls his men around him, 
And asks them all to dine. 

And listen to this story. 

And taste his Spanish wine : 



" There is an isle, Bimini, 

Where mortals ne'er grow old, 

Who drink the magic waters 
From goblets made of gold. 



I know 'tis only nature 
For man to cling to life ; 

But now no longer anxious, 
We'll rest secure from strife. 



30 SOJVGS OF A PLBB. 



For now our ship is gliding, 
And ere yon moon shall wane, 

Beyond the gray Tortugas, 
We'll take new lives again. 



And then we'll smile defiance 
At Death, the spectral ghost. 

And tell old Time, the father, 
We spurn his dying host. 



And where we've had misfortunes, 
We'll profit by the past. 

And live a life most perfect 

With those we've loved at last. 



For man ne'er sees his errors. 
His wrecks, his griefs, his scars ; 

Or how he's sailed life's ocean. 
And hung upon its bars ; 



Till half his time allotted, 

His three score years and ten, 

Are written in that record*: 
' The Destiny of Men.' " 



So spake the gallant hero. 
And drank his Spanish wine. 

And praised the living fountain, 
Where crystal waters shine. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 31 



Then onward with his sailors, 
He sped for many a mile, 

His eye upon th' horizon, 
His heart upon the isle. 



Thus came he to a country. 
On Pascua Florida^ 

Refreshed by many a river, 
Beset with many a bay. 



He anchored in its harbors, 
And claimed it for his king, 

And searched thro' many a forest, 
And drank from many a spring ; 



But never found Bimini, 

For which he searched so long, 
Or life-renewing fountain, 

So heralded in song. 

He, thwarted in his efforts. 
Died of a mortal wound 

Made by a savage hunter 
To save his hunting ground. 



But there will be no dying 
.To such a hero's fame, 

Forever and forever 

Will echo l)acl< liis nnino. 



32 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



And Spaniards will remember, 
And look with love and pride 

Toward the Western Comitry, 
Where such a hero died. 



For from its vernal beauty, 

Sweet buds and fragrant bow'rs, 

He named it ere departing ; 
"Florida— land of flowers." 




LOVE SONGS. 



SONGS OF A PL KB. 37 



O, MAIDEN FAIR. 

Ai7'. — " The Bohemian Girl.'''' 

O, maiden fair, turn not away 

Thy pure and tender eye, 
Forget the past and love again. 

Or, weeping, I shall die ; 
No other soul, no other heart 

Shall ever hear my tale ; 
O, drive me not by word or act, 

Where wounded spirits wail. 



I could not live one day and see 

Another claim thy hand, 
I could not die and keep my soul 

Content in Spirit-land, 
And know that we, undone by fate, 

Must ever stay apart, 
Or think that he who loves thee less, 

Had won thy maiden heart. 



O, maiden fair, trust not tlic tale, 

Which other lips may tell, 
Ijclieve in none except the heart, 

'That feels and loves so well I 
llow canst thou treat with careless grace, 

My love, my look, my sigh ? 
(>, speak to me, ami love again, 

C)r, \veei)ing, 1 shall die I 



38 SONGS OF A FLEB, 

THOU ART NOTHING TO ME NOW. 

Thou art nothing to me now ; 
Cold as the Alpine snows, 
Cold as the blast that blows, 
Cold as the words which froze 
This heart, am I to those 

Who are nothing to me now. 



Thou art nothing to me now ; 
Those lips so fondly pressed, 
Those eyes with smiles caressed, 
Those hands in jewels dressed. 
The love one day professed — 

All, are nothing to me now. 



Thou art nothing to me now ; 
Farewell, we meet no more, 
I leave my native shore 
To search the wide world o'er 
For hearts, true to the core — 

Thou art nothing to me now. 



ONLY A DREAM. 

I had a dream of mystic lore, 

Which seems to haunt me as I rove ; 

I shall forget it nevermore — 

I dreamed that I kissed my love. 



SONGS OF A PLRB. 39 



The sun had hid his blazing glare, 
Night wept dew drops from above, 

And in my visions, all so fair, 
I dreamed that I kissed my love. 

I tho't that we were strolling nigh 
The cot within the shady grove, 

And when I turned to say * good bye,' 
I dreamed that I kissed my love. 

I tho't I took her hand in mine. 
That little hand without a glove, 

And when she did her cheek incline — 
I dreamed that I kissed my love. 

Within that last look at the gate, 

I thought a trembling passion strove. 

But thus it was decreed by fate- — 
1 dreamed that I kissed my love. 

O, I care not for silly jokes ; 

But then I was to madness drove, 
When I found 'twas all a hoax, 

And dreaming that I kissed uiy love. 



WHEN I DREAM. 

When I dream, 
There stands a spirit near my bed. 
And it doth seem 
To speak of days forcvcM- fled — 
When I dream. 



40 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



When I dream, 
There comes my friend that used to play 
Along life's stream, 
In all her youthful, sweet array — 
When I dream. 



When I dream, 
That maiden face I used to hold 

In high esteem. 
Bends o'er my pillow as of old — 

When I dream. 



When I dream. 
Those eyes look down and seem to say. 
As thus they beam. 
The words I heard in boyhood's day — 
When I dream. 



When I dream, 
Those lips appear to touch my brow, 
As to redeem 
A long lost pledge or broken vow- 
When I dream. 



When 1 dream, 
My heart once more begins to quake 
With hopeful gleam 
That long was dead — then I awake 
From my dream. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 41 



CLARIBEL. 

Chorus : 
Fare you well, Claribel, 

I am weeping, Claribel, 
And my grief I cannot tell — 

Fare you w^ell, fare you well. 



In the happy, golden past, 
Not a cloud my life o'ercast ; 

But they've come to me at last. 
Like a tempest's howling blast. 



O, your heart is like a stone 

In a desert place, alone. 
And I've made of it a throne, 

Where I worshiped with my own. 



Give me back, again, my heart. 

Heal the wound from Cupid's dart, 

For I feel its cruel smart — 

Loose your toils and I'll depart. 



Let some true heart for me glow, 
One that is not cold as snov\% 

By its wooing I may know 
It hath love and can bestow. 



42 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



I LOVE THE SEA. 

I love the sea with his great, gray rocks ; 
I love the sea with his hoary locks ; 
But why do I love the great, deep sea, 
When he taketh my true-love from me ? 



I love the sea with his happy isles ; 
I love the sea when his great face smiles ; 
I love the sea — oh, how can it be, 
When he taketh my true-love from me ? 



I love the sea with his hidden gold. 
With his gems of purest light, untold ; 
But why do I love with heart so free, 
When he taketh my true-love from me ? 



I love the sea as he clasps his hands, 
Or holds them out to stroke the sands — 
O, joy must fill his great heart with glee, 
As he taketh my true-love from me ! 



I love the sea, and his ships as well. 
And their finny sails which rise and swell ; 
For once, as I watched the golden sea. 
He brought my true-love back to me. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 43 



A PURITAN MAID'S SONG. 

We stroll'd upon the yellow sands, 
He clasped me with his trembling hands ; 
He sailed away to foreign lands, 
Across the deep, blue sea. 



He wrote to me he would be true. 
Although his face I could not view. 
And, in a year, he would renew 
His vow of love for me. 



The summer flowers came back again, 
He sailed upon the doubtful main — 
Alas ! alas ! my heart's deep pain, 
His ship was lost at sea. 



His grave was made among the pearls, 
Where mermaid with her silken curls. 
His direful story now unfurls 
In her strange minstrelsy. 



And in my dreams of angel bands, 
I see him as he waiting stands, 
Still holding out his snowy hands 
To keep his vow w itli me. 



44 SONGS OF A PLEB, 



DEAR HEART, YOU SAY YOU LOVE ME. 

Dear heart, you say you love me, 
Your speech I scarce believe, 

They say that words are fickle,^ 
And zvords sometimes deceive. 



Dear heart, you say you love me. 
You greet me with a smile ; 

But smiles are seldom earnest, 
So often they beguile. 



Dear heart, you say you love me, 
You seek to win by stealth, 

Your p7'esents do not move me. 
Love is not sold for wealth. 



Dear heart, you say you love me, 
When you only love my gold^ 

O, love can nev^er issue 

From looks and gifts so cold. 



Dear heart, you say you love me, 
A tear falls on my breast, 

A clasp of hands in silence, 
Is more than all the rest. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 45 



O, LOVE! 

O, love, dear love, 
They tell me that thy beauty will decay. 

And love, sweet love. 
Thy graceful charms, too soon, will pass away. 



But love, true love, 
Thy heart will ever be the same to me, 

And love, my love, 
Thy soul contain its tender purity. 

Then love, sweet love, 
Old Time shall never drive Good Cheer away : 

For love, old love,^ 
He can but take from us this house of clay. 



O, FRIGID LOOKS ! 

O, frigid looks, averted eyes! 
Here, take the gifts I used to prize ; 
The frost of negligence severe, 
Has slain the flow'rs I held so dear. 



I would not be a clog — a weight 
To hinder e'en the one I hate ! 
O, take the urn wliicli holds the dust 
Of plighted love, once sacred trust I 



46 SONGS OF A FLEB, 



Had I a friend, had she a heart 
That could be won by sundry art, 
By jewels rare, or bags of gold, 
I'd know her by its love so cold. 



I could not sleep, I could not rest 
With dreams of such gifts on my breast ; 
O, take them back, return my own. 
The cage is naught with songster flown ! 



ESTRANGED. 

Thy smiles, thy sighs, thy tears 
Have ceased so long ago ; 

The flowers of early years 
Have perished in the snow. 



The luster of thine eyes. 
The grasp of eager hands — 

Affection's strongest ties. 
Are now but broken bands. 



Thy hesitating step, 
The melancholy glance 

From eyes that often wept 
Within thy lonely manse ; 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 47 



Are evidence to me 
Sufficiently to prove 

That all v^as coquetry, 

And had no touch of love. 



Thy sighs, thy smiles, thy tears 
Were counterfeit and base, 

Within thy looks and fears 
I can discern the trace. 



O, give me of that love. 
Replete and free from gall, 

Kept consecrate by Jove, 
Or give me none at all. 



BANISHED. 

Alas, alas, we've said farewell ; 

N.O plight or troth remains, 
No charm to break the phantom spell 

That keeps the heart in chains. 



That dreamy eye, that rosy cheek, 

That face with ready smile, 
That tongue wliich did my praises speak. 

Would now witli scorn revile. 



48 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Those lips in love that once were pressed, 

Now at my coming pale, 
And fain would offer a protest ; 

But then they somehow fail. 



Oh, why for pride's ostensive sake, 

Wilt thou offend thy love, 
And cause two hearts in grief to break, 

That faithful yet might prove ? 



Oh, God, forgive the erring heart 
That scorns to be humane, 

And heal, oh heal, with wondrous art. 
The one which loves in vain ! 



SOME DAY. 



Some day, as thro' this life I press, 
While battling Fate or fleeing Time, 
I may behold in tenderness, 
A face I loved in manhood's prime. 



Some day, along the busy street, 
Thro' mazes of the dim Unknown, 
Perchance, some angel I may meet. 
Will tell me something of my own. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 49 



Some day, while struggling in the race, 
Which leads to Fame's uncertain goal, 
Perhaps I'll meet her face to face, 
O, then, what joy shall fill my soul ! 



Some day, my heart shall eat its fill 
From Fortune's board of bread and wine, 
And all my anxious fears be still ; 
When I am hers and she is mine. 



FRANGIPANI. 



I watch the dying embers play 
Upon the hearth to-night ; 

They shine like twinkling stars, away 
In untold realms of light. 



And as I watch them as they glow 

And kindle into flame, 
I think of one who long ago 

Glowed in' this heart the same. 



The German and the ball were o*er. 

And I, an ardent guest. 
Obeying her, that night I wore 

A rose uj^on my l)reast. 



so SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Her eyes displayed a lustrous light 
Which seemed to know my doom, 

As in her jeweled hand, so white. 
She held a sweet perfume. • 



For I was smitten with her pun, 

Her wit, her repartee ; 
Before her beauty's queenly throne, 

I bent the willing knee. 



And when I asked her if she'd wed 
Her heart and hand to mine ; 

She only bowed her knowing head. 
And seemed the more divine. 



I whisper'd low, that with a word, 
My future she could bless ; 

She said ; " In me 'twould be absurd. 
Then, not to answer, yes ! " 



Somehow, her vase of sweet perfume 
Was spilled upon my breast — '■ 

By accident we may presume — 
But you can guess the rest. 



Old Time hath pass'd on wings so fleet, 

Still he cannot consume 
A recollection that is sweet, 

And pleasing as perfume. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 51 



The night-wind prowls about the door, 
And shakes the pane with cold ; 

I hear a rustle as of yore, 
Within each curtain's fold ; 



And think 'tis but a silken dress. 
With all its sweet perfume, 

As oft it moved with gentleness 
About the hallowed room. 



The rose is dead — its beauty fled, 
And she is in the tomb. 

And oft instead of roses red, 
I smell the sweet perfume. 



For Time hath cleft a heart and left 
It ling'ring here in gloom — 

A thing of weft, a thing bereft 
Of all but sweet perfume. 

So, I'll retire as doth my fire, 

Which ceaseth to illume, 
And to inspire the living lyre 

With thoughts of sweet perfume. 



52 SOJVGS OF A FLEB. 



O, TELL ME, WHAT IS LOVE ! 

O, tell me not the sun is flame, 
The moon reflected light, 

Or how the constant stars became 
The watches of the night ; 



That night's the mother of the day, 
The morning of the noon, 

Or beauty's charms will soon decay. 
And youth depart too soon ; 



That pleasure's but a ready snare, 

Its best reward a sigh. 
And oft before we can prepare. 

Our time has come to die. 



O, tell me not, I know too well 
These lessons, and approve. 

But tell, O Fates— Minerva tell, 
O, tell me what is love ? 



FIRST LOVE. 



Thou art my little love, thou art 
Queen of my soul and joy of heart ; 
Before thy throne, my smiles, my tears, 
I'll sacrifice for many years. 




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SONGS OF A FLEB. 53 



Had I a scroll on which to write, 
Large as yon sky so clear and bright, 
And were my ink the deep, blue sea, 
Ne'er could I tell my love for thee. 

Should Orpheus come and tune his lute, 
Whose music could, beyond dispute. 
Ensnare the fierce le-vi-a-than, 
'Twould not move me as thy love can. 

As sparkling dew, at midnight hour, 
So falleth on a thirsty flow'r, 
And to its leaves new life imparts, 
So cometh love unto our hearts. 



A SERENADE. 

Last night, I dreamed of you, I dreamed of you ; 
Your angel face came to my view, came to my view, 
With songs of the beautiful, songs of the good and true. 
Chorus. 

O, Mari! Time, time is ever ; 

Meet me by the cool, mossy stream ; 

O, Mari ! Leave, leave me never, 

Love is like a sweet, tranquil dream. 

Down where the shy, little dove, liillc dove, 
Look'd forth from its hiddeif nest above, nest above. 
It sang to its liappy mate, as first 1 told my love. 
CiiORrs. 



54 SONGS OF A FLEB. 



But time now has chang'd the place, chang'd the place, 
Has chang'd my heart, has chang'd your face, has chang'd your face, 
Still there is left for me, love, hope and queenly grace. 
Chorus. 

Life's dream will soon be o'er, will soon be o'er, 
Love's happy songs I'll sing no more, I'll sing no more ; 
None then will ever know what our hearts shall keep in store. 



MY LITTLE MARIANNE. 

In the little town of Eaton, 

Near by a bubbling stream, 
Where the poets love to wander, 

And music seems to dream, 
Liv'd a little rosy maiden, 

Her name was Marianne, 
I learned to love her dearly. 
Long before I was a man. 
Chorus. 
Then come, ye bards, and tune your harp>. 

To sing of one so fair ; 
For all my love for Marianne, 
Was " castles in the air." 

Now speak your thoughts, ?ay what you will, 

Of lovers true and blest ; 
But of them all on this great earth, 

A poet-love is best ; 
But by and by some other lad, 

To love her, soon began, 
And ere I knew, he won away 

My little Marianne. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 55 



So I, the broken hearted youth, 

(For thus the story ran,) 
Was left to sing my awful fate, 

And wail for Marianne. 
Thus end our little love scenes. 

With little lovers fair, 
Like fleeting dreams of Fairy Land, 

And " castles in the air." 



SWEET ANNIE. 

The farmer plows, the farmer sows, 
The farmer reaps, the farmer mows ; 
But I care not how all that goes, 
When I think of thee, sweet Annie. 
The winds may blow, the waves roll high, 
On life's deep sea, for aught care I ; 
But I cannot restrain a sigh. 
When I think of thee, sweet Annie. 

The mock-bird sits upon a stake, 
And sings his song, my heart to break ; 
But he can only make it quake 
For a kiss from thee, sweet Annie; 
And hidden in the tree above, 
So sweetly, sings the turtle-dove. 
Just to remind me of the love 
That 1 liave for tliee, sweet Annie. 



56 SONGS OF A FLEB. 

The gentle wind sings thro' t le-t-cec^ > 
The soft waves roll the deep, blue seas, 
These are nature's charms to please 
Winsome hearts like thine, sweet Annie. 
Ev'ry science and ev'ry art 
Might from this universe depart, 
Should'st thou remain to charm my heart, 
With thy love, my bonnie Annie. 



TO A MEMBER OF THE CLUB. 

Farewell, sweet girl, farewell, 
No longer would st thou stay. 
Yet the western zephyrs tell 
Of foot-falls far away. 

To me no cupid's dart, 
Could pierce a soul so well, 
But thou art gone, dear heart ! 
Farewell, sweet girl, farewell. 




PART III. 



Humorous Miscellany, 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 6i 



"TOO TOO." 

The Vassar girls are still ahead — 
Not in the wax they chew, 

In that per se^ I've heard it said 
They seem to be " too too ; " 



But with the thoughts they hav^e in mind, 

Which they present to you 
By cunning synonyms, " refined. " 

Which always are " too too. " 



Last month, a prince of regal state. 

As rich as any Jew, 
Proposed to wed a graduate ; 

She said he was " too too." 



Thus of his wealth across the sea, 

A picture fair he drew, 
Concluding with his colony : 

(Which she pronounced "too too.") 



Harry: — "In Afiic's briglu and sunny land, 
I have broad fields so green ; 
Wilt thou accept my proffered hand. 
And be I he ruling (juecn ? " 



62 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Sie7'ra: — " Sahara, do not give me Air, 
So close to Timbuctu, 
Your proposition is quite fair ; 
But then it is too too." 



Harry: — " Sweet maiden, pray what meanest thou 
By those two words so chaste ? 
Come hither and I'll show thee how 
The men surveyed the waste."^^ 



Sierra: — " Sir, I'm astonished at your taste ! 
When others are in view. 
He that surveys a lady's zuaist. 
Is utterly too too ! 



I Caffir no young Fellah's hand, 
Your way, sir, now pursue ; 

Your bold request I cannot stand ; 
Because it is too too ! 



Poughkeepsie a bulldog in his shed, 

That lies in wait for you. 
And could you learn what's in his head, 

You'd think he was too too! 



What ! have you Senegal, good sir, 
Bui who would thus eschew 

An offer so averse to her 
From one who is too too ? " 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 63 



Harry, — " O a sis thou must be an Air, 
Perplexing, too, I own ; 
But do not drive me to despair, 
I offer thee a throne. " 



Sierra: — " Say, Harry it would make me« Tsad 
To cross the waters blue, 
And then poor mother would go mad 
To think I was too too." 



Ha7 ry: — " Sierra Le one hand in this. 

Fear not thy mother's wrath ; 
She'd have to Guard,-if-u-I miss, 
The dangers of thy path ! " 

Sierra: — " I've no Good Hope, Suez you please, 
My answer's firm and true ; 
I'll live an Airless maid of ease 
Before I'll wed too too. 



So go to Guinea with your wealth, 

I hold no man in lieu ; 
I think the climate for my health 

Too utterly too too." 



Harry: — " The Region of eternal Gum 
Is far across the sea. 
The place so often sought by some 
\'oung ladies fair, like thee." 



64 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Sierra: — " The Bight of Bemn, too, is there ; 
A bite that none can chew, 
I'd be so vext that I could swear, 
To get a bite too too ! " 



So then, the good prince bow'd his head, 
And sobbed a sad " boo-hoo ; " 

Because the girl he could not wed 
Had said he was " too too." 



Harry: — " Alas, this parting gives me pain, 
Dear heart, but then adieu, 
I'll sail across the surging main. 
Because thou art 'too too!' " 




SONGS OF A PLEB. 



65 




THE NAU(GH)TICAL LOVERS. 

O, listen friend, while I unfurl 

A sailor's little sail, 
And for its truth I reefer you 

To steamer, " U. S. Mail." 



Jack C. Foam was a sailor buoy, 
And rowed upon the waves, 

He had seen thousands bite the dust, 
And sink to watery graves. 

He always let his iron flukes 
Drag near the eastern coast ; 

For here was moored a little maid, 
Who shorely loved him most. 



He often mist'er while at sea, 
Wliich rigg'd him full and sore, 

And made him wish hi sea sy life 
Upon the brine was oar. 



66 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



He said ; " 'F I don't s-s-top mizzen her, 

I'll be a jolly b-b(l)oat," 
So he again began to pour, 

And to his gal'e wrote : 

" Dear h'art, I am to duty tide, 
Fo river by the main, 
Reel ease me with a single word, 
And calm this surging brain. 

Can oe consult me at the wall, 

Near by your father's lot ? 
Y'acht to meet me if you luff me. 

Although he bids you knot. 



I know you're not a nau(gh)tical, 
But then you are my stay, 

I will not give you wind, lass, dear, 
So meet me there. I (s)pray," 



Her father rudder little note, 
And loudly he did rower, 

And said he'd spanker if he did 
Ketch her with Jack once more. 



So he began to harp^o)on John, 
And harp on Nanna dear, 

And cut her with hi sword so keen- 
She shed a salty tear. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 67 



He said he'd larboard long enough 

As tiller of the "sile," 
And he would s(ch)ooner die than see 

A tar-tar spend his pile. 



Miss Nanna reeled and coalered up, 
And bit her lips and vowed 

That she Jack's figurehead would be, 
As o'er the main he plowed. 



Days came, days went, the waves roU'd high, 

No seaman came in sight. 
She thought his brig-a dear device, 

And Jack a water sprite. 



One morning Towser gave a barque, 

She to the lattice flew, 
And there upon the wall sat Jack, 

To hold an interview. 

The father stern with his commands. 

Bid Jack to cut away, 
Or he would be to him a wheel 

To churn him into si)ray. 

The flying Nan' with pennant liair, 
Across the yard then ran, 

And fell a-vveeping on a log, 
Near by her sailor man. 



6S SOJVGS OF A PLEB, 



" O, Johnny dear, you warship me, 

I cannot tell y'awl ; 
I see we air in deep distress, 
Don't let you r anchor fall." 



Jack saw the error of his weigh, 
And caught her in the squall ; 

He could not tarry long, but tho't 
He'd skipper o'er the wall. 



He had a nocean on his mind, 
A grating at the heart, 

To sail away with her just then 
To some bah Nanna mart. 



" Now, who can pinnace to this spot, 
I'd like to know ? " said Jack, 

" For I am fleet of foot, and you 
Shall tell me how to tack." 



He tho't he'd lugger to his boat, 
And steer 'er for the ship. 

But then, alas for J. & N. 
They never made the trip. 

For down beneath the surging waves, 

Unseen by mortal eye, 
A devil fish was singing there 

His " swi et by and by." 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



69 



So up he came unto the top, 
And snugly tuck'd them in, 

And pressed them to his heavin' chest 
Within his little fin. 

But Jack hung to his diving belle, 

So all the fishes said, 
Until their mangled skel-e-tons 

Were mingled with the dead. 



Now all ye pa-ri-ents on the coast, 
I pray you keep good heart, 

For thus the cunning devil-fish 
Has vowed to take your part ; 

And if your daughters run away 

To marry sailor men. 
He'll catch them every one for you, 

And take them to his den. 




70 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



PRESSED FLOWERS. 



Ah, she was fair ! 
And I remember, too, the very night, 
'Twas when I graduated. Dressed in white, 

I saw her there. 



When I essayed. 
And bands, with music sweet, struck up anew, 
She sent to me the fairest flowers that grew 

In sun or shade. 



A sweet boquet, 
Bound so unique, just as a golden sheaf. 
With here and there a httle silver leaf, 

And verdant spray. 



Applause was loud ; 
And lest some freshman or some " soph, " so wise. 
My gesture or my speech should criticise, 

I simply bowed. 



When all quiesced, 
Congratulations came ; and in the whirl 
I had a conversation with the girl 

So gaily dressed. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 71 



Beneath the stars, 
And constellations then, our carriage roll'd — 
We spoke of those, named by the Romans old : 

" Venus and Mars." 



And through the parks, 
Where the silv'ry streams from the fountains play. 
And dance in the moonlight, we took our way, 

As gay as larks. 



A senior must 
On such occasions, ( as they say out west 
When e'er they entertain a friendly guest ) ; 

" Blow in his dust." 



So, in her glee, 
She pinned a sweet boquet upon my breast, 
Which surged like the billows that cannot rest 

Upon the sea. 



While thus we drove, 
( As seniors do,) and talked of a career, 
How I'd be a president or a peer. 

As time would prove ; 



The hours flew by. 
As you know they do with their wings so fleet. 
When for the first times earnest triflors \\\cv{, 

vSo young and shy. 



72 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



It grew so late, 
That lest her parents should become alarmed, 
We drove along, with Cupid's arts quite charmed, 

Up to her gate. 



The story old, 
Which has been the same for six thousand years, 
With farewells and vows, with sighs and tears, 

That nifrht was told. 



We met no more ; 
I tramp' d the world around in search of fame, 
And then back to my humble town I came. 

Full sick and sore. 



" She went acraft " 
With a man not educat'd in the schools, 
But knew well how to use a miner's tocls. 

And sink the shaft. 



She sent their card ; 
I was chagrined by my unhappy lot ; 
But considered, and then determined not 

To take it hard. 



For such is life ; 
The schools don't teach a person, now-a-days. 
To work, or those most mysterious ways 

To get a wife. 



SOJ^GS OF A PLEB. 



73 



But t'other night, 
While thinking o'er those happy hours, 
And searching thro' my trunk, I found the flowers - 

A lovely sight ! 



You could have guessed 
Why I have kept them to this very day — 
Not for their beauty, but the novel way 

That they were pressed ! 




74 SONGS OF A PLEB, 



VANITY FAIR. 

She is fair. Her rubicund lips 

Are bathed in smiles as I have seen 

Them oft before when the muscles 

Wantonly twitch, and to view 

Bring her white teeth which shine as pearls. 

Her features are not worn or maim'd 

By cares, or mark'd by Time's rough finger. 

The vital currents silently course 

Beneath the surface of each cheek, 

And cause a rosy hue there to linger. 

Her eyes, although tame, glow like lamps. 

Which shine in the chambers of her soul — 

Like the gazelle's, the roe's. 

Or the antelope's do they shine, 

And like the fawn's eyes they are meek. 

Her hair is golden ; not disheveled 

In pendant twists like the flirt's, 

Or banged or frizzled or falsified ; 

But like a Niobe she wears it. 

Her form is like the fair Dian's, 

Not stooped or bent or oddly swung. 

And affected as oft you see them. 

Her foot is not a Cinderella's, 

But it is plain and uniform ; 

Her well shapen hands are not made 

Alone to touch the keys and give 

A voice to the dumb piano ; 

But are skilled as well in domestics. 

Her words are ringing and clear cut. 

As if each were a golden coin 

Made in the mint of rhetoric. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 75 



She goes attired in modern dress — 
'Not a collection of silks, strings, 
Lace, ribbon and paint with which 
The belle a fnode adorns herself ; 
But as if a mind true and fixed 
Had judged the fitness of the suit ; 
And as she walks "along the street, 
Each anxious eye is turned to gaze ; 
First the swell raises his eye-glass. 
Nudges his pals and stares at her. 
The queen of the parlors then looks 
With scorn and disdain at her, 
And demurely thinks — a rival. 
The clerks drop their yardsticks when she 
Stops athwart the charming window, 
And ask of one another her name. 
The business man takes off his specs, 
As though he fears the glasses are 
Deceiving him as through he looks. 
The student, with classical eye. 
Then scans her and thinks her to be 
A modern Helen or a Dido. 
Boot-blacks, at sight, whistle a refrain, 
And even bachelors are forced 
To regard her shape with a smile ; 
Yet no one loves her. In the town 
Scores of young men call upon her — 
Call but once and never more. 
Concerning her they all speak well ; 
Still their actions do belie their words ; 
For when they get within the walls 
Of her domicile, the fountain 
And springs of love evaporate, 



76 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Or freeze within the heart, as 'twere. 

With her no one shares the sofa, 

Or e'er enjoys a tete a tete. 

All sit at a courted distance. 

As if a barrier intervened. 

Her single life surprises all. 

And she herself begins to think 

The young men curious and shy. 

Now, adding not another page, 

Without consulting her digestion, 

I'll bring my story to a close 

By telling you the direful secret, 

Still, hoping that you will excuse 

The unpolished proposition. 

Which with these words can be expressed, 

In fact not a whit too wisely, 

But alas, too well : her breath 




SOJVGS OF A PLEB, 77 

THE COMET AS SEEN WITH DIFFERENT EYES. 

A PARODY. 

Eyes of wonder, eyes of pleasure, 
Eyes of toil and eyes of leisure, 
Eyes of passion, eyes of science. 
Eyes of fame and self-reliance, 
Eyes of fancy, deep and dreaming. 
Look to see the comet gleaming. 

Men of science, with their glasses, 
Are first to see it as it passes — 
Think the nucl'us ne'er will crash us. 
But the tail perhaps may lash us ; 
From them, alone, starts the rumor — 
Quoth the Yankee in earnest humor ; 

" Waal, what's that tail made ov, Mister ? 
" Waal, yes, I reckon 'tis mist or " 

And the fancy, girlish dreamer ; 
"Has it not an awful streamer ? 
I wonder where it got its fashion ? " 

Says the swell, with smothered passion ; 
"Awe, her tail, though quite unhandy, 
Is a reg'lar — awe Jim dandy ! " 

Lovers strolling, scarcely seeing 
Tail or comet as 'tis fleeing — 
What care they for comet gleaming, 
When love's passion copes their seeming ? 
On his arm so fondly leaning, 
Timid bride asks groom its meaning. 



78 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



The soldier views it with the feeling 
That war upon the land is stealing. 

" Ah, what a ride ! " cries the tourist ; 

" But the landing's not the surest — 
Yes, I know it would be splendid, 
But I fear, though, never ended. " 

And the sailor on the ocean 
Views it with a deep emotion ; 
Chinaman John from his station 
Best likes " tails " of his nation. 

Business man of vain intention, 
Would have a car of such invention. 
But says the poet, " This reminds me 
Of this earth on which it finds me ; 
For things of life bright and glowing, 
Soon are gone like comet going." 

Coggia, signal of distress. 

Light of etheral nothingness, 

No one knows where thou art speeding 

With thy huge tail thus receding. 




SONGS OF A PLEB, 79 



NATURE'S SOLITUDE. 
A Parody. 
Afar in the country I love to ride, 
With a 44 navy strapped onto my side, 
Away — away from the city's dull noise, 
Where the police are raising Cane with the boys. 
By valleys remote where the pole-cat plays, 
Where the brindle cow stoopeth adown to graze, 
Where the snake and the lizard unhunted recline, 
Screened by the bowers of the poisonous vine ; 
Where the wild goose browses at peace in his wood, 
And the mud sucker gambols unscared in the flood ; 
And the wild boar whettcth his tusks at will, 
And the musical mosquito drinketh his fill. 

Afar in the country I love to ride, 

With a 44 navy strapped onto my side, 

Down through the stubble in my little bare feet, 

Where the jocular bumbee hath his retreat, 

In the brown sear woods to hunt the paw-paws, 

Where the fierce Thomas cat sharpeneth his claws. 

Mid briars and thorns where the Billy goats graze. 

Alone and barefooted I love to haze ; 

Where the butting ram and kicking jackass, 

Botli starve to death for the same blade of grass. 

And the red snooted buzzard wheels high o'er head> 

Greedy to sniff and to gorge on the dead. 

Afar in the conntry I love to ride, 

With a 44 navy strapped onto my side ; 

Where the smiling bulldog sits down at tlic gate, 

With his head full of teeth and his heart full of luito. 



8o SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 

Where the big country girl considers your ways, 
And laughs at your clothes as she standeth to gaze, . 
Where she grins at your collar and tall plug hat, 
And talks to her mother about your cravat, 
Then see her big brother with hay-seeded hair, 
With his pants in his boots make ready to swear 
And fume in your presence for cutting a dash. 
And scold his fat sister for " making a mash. " 

Afar in the country I love to ride, 
With a 44 navy strapped onto my side, 
Where the Spanish needle cometh through to my hide. 
And beggar lice into my hair become tied. 
Where the boys all meet by the light of the moon. 
And dive in the w^oods in search of the " coon," 
And steal all the chickens that roost on the fence. 
And have a rare feast at their neighbor's expense. 
Where they all leave me to wonder and grin, 
A-holding the bag to catch the coons in, 
Where I stay two days without any food. 
To me, is Nature's Solitude. 




SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 8i 



THE MYSTERY OF A MUSTACHE. 

This is a tale of sad mishaps, 

When virgins walked the streets, 
When school-boys and the other chaps 

Were baffled by dead beats ; 
Yes, then I woo'd a lass most fair. 
With rosy cheeks and curly hair, 
With winning ways, as light as air. 
And eyes, so shy, without a stare. 



Well, T was struck with that sweet face, 

How foolish one can be ! 
My confidence was out of place. 

Which I could never see ; 
Although a lad from other climes, 
Yet I was rather " green " those times — 
I went to school and wrote odd rhymes. 
And spent, for chewing gum, my dimes. 



A harness-maker came to town. 

He was a tramp they say, 
He cut my rising spirits down 

And won my girl away. 
He had a cane, a faded coat, 
And whiskers like a William goat, 
And so, my dear began to dote, 
And sent to me a saucy note. 



82 SONGS OF A FLEB. 



He often with the others met 

My sweetheart in the choir, 
And somehow his appearance set 

Her bosom all on fire ; 
So he was introduced one night, 
Which knocked me higher than a kite- 
He fell in love with her at sight, 
And she responded with her might. 

There was no hair upon my lip, 
Of course he had me down, 

So, when she let this secret slip, 
I never ceased to frown ; 

For any mustache was to her 
' A sweet incense, a spice, a myrrh, 

To tone a kiss which might occur." 



THE CAMEL'S HUMP. 

'Twas during the war, eighteen sixty five — 
My hero still in the states may survive — 
His name ? William Merryweather, a free, 
Go-easy mortal as ever could be ; 
First in the battle, and first to break ranks, 
First on the camp-ground playing his pranks. 

The chaplain oft lectured William on " soul ; " 
But still he would drown his griefs in the bowl, 
And slyly wince at the chaplain's remark, 
And cling to his sins though varied and dark ; 
And seemed to appear, as his name implies, 
Quite Merryweather, yet cloudy his skies. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 83 

One day, while sitting outside of his tent, 
And trying some trick or joke to invent, 
The chaplain came up with serious frown. 
And was saluted by William, the clown ; 
" Say, chaplain, seein' yer always so kind. 
One question answer and settle my mind. " 

The chaplain, anxious to see him repent. 
And thinking a sin he wished to lament. 
Said : " Certainly, William, I shall take pride 
To answer questions you wish to confide. " 
" Well," William said, " since yer don't mind my slack, 
Why has the camel a hump on his back ? " 

" Why, William ! you and all men ought to know 

That it's because God created him so!" 
" No, chaplain," said William with a dry cough, 
" That's jest where I think you preachers are off; 
Now, let me give you a sensible view. 
And then I'll leave the whole matter with you." 

" Yer see, the camel's a kind of a beast 
That on briers and thistles likes to feast, 
And while old Noah was buildin' the Ark, 
The camel was out on his usual lark ; 
When Noah had done, and blew his last note, 
The camel hu?nped himself to catch the boat." 




84 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



EATON. 

Tune — " Yankee Doodle.'''' 

Was riding in a dining car, 

And eating as I traveled, 

We came upon a little town, 

With streets well paved and graveled : 

I thought I'd ask its humble name. 

Before I took my meat on ; 

The carman smiled and looked at me, 

And gently whispered ; " Eat on." 



O yes, I will, and plenty too. 

But don't be such a flunky, 

Why, if it were not for the ears, 

I'd think you were a donkey ! " 

Why do you wish to tease a man 

With your outrageous bleatin' ? 

Come, tell its name, and we'll be friends - 

The fiend once more yelled ; " Eat on ! " 



Yes, of course, you see I wilJ, 

Come, won't you have a bite, sir ? 

I've traveled some to see the world, 

And never like to fight, sir ; 

And look ! the train will soon be gone, 

The engine has its heat on, 

O speak the name before we go ! 

Once more he bellowed, " Eat on. " 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 85 



He waived his hand, the train sped on, 
And I was left a-thinking, 
That this wise man who snub'd me so, 
Must surely have been drinking, 
And so I asked the friendly guest, 
( Who had done the treatin',) 
What this omnous town was named, 
He merely faltered ; " Eat on. " 

Eat on ! Ye gods, invoke me not ; 

My cup no longer sweeten, 

For I have reached the maximum, 

Within the town of Eaton ; 

O, I have tramped about the states, 

Strange lands I've had my feet on. 

Ne'er have I seen a town like this, 

This little town of Eat on." 



NOT FOR ME. 

I passed by her window, 

I saw the tranquil smile 
Which played with her features, 

And kiss'd her lips the while. 
I heard the joyous laugh, 

The merry music sound, 
Then fair guests ceased to quaff, 

And dancing feet went round; 
lUU not for me, for me. 



86 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



And thro' th'e bright mid-night, 

And all the " wee sma' hours," 
Angels in the moonlight 

Told me: " Up to the door 
They came and then away 

They drove with coach and four, 
Until the break of day; 

But not for thee, for thee. 



Then sought she her pillow. 

And dreamed a happy dream 
Of the weeping willow, 

And the mountain stream. 
Where Agustus met her; 

And as she smiled, amain, 
At his wit, some fetter, 

Unseen, rack'd her with pain; 
But not for thee, for thee." 



I pass'd by her window, 

As oft I had before; 
But the doctor's carriage 

Stood just before the door — 
'Twas fever, they told me. 

And bade me take warning; 
I did; but behold ye ! 

A hearse called this morning; 
But not for me, for me. 



SONGS OF A PLEB, 87 



THE MELONCHOLERA DAYS. 

A PARODY. 

The meloncholera days are come, 

The saddest of the year, 
The urchin leaves his chewing gum, 

The Dutchman leaves his beer. 
Heaped in every grocery store 

Are melons so immense. 
That any red or yellow core, 

Will only cost ten cents ! 



Where are the rich and tender '* greens" 

That used to taste so good ? 
All " gorn " save the butter-beans 

Which serve us still for food. 
Berries black and berries sweet 

Have now all passed away. 
And yet from wagons in the street, 

I hear a cry all day. 



The streets are full of rinds and seed, 

The gutters heaping lie, 
The swine are choked to death in greed, 

" How is that for high ? " 
The " nutmeg " and the " cantelope " 
Have overrun the land, 
Tlie cucumber, an early hope. 

Is still in good deniand. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



The boys work now, by rule compact, 

They have a heap of fun, 
They've got so now they can subtract^ 

Borrow and carry one ! 
But he who steals and runs away — 

So once the poet said — 
Will live to steal another day, 

When melon vines are dead. 



And oh, what pains do follow on 

To make him double o'er, 
And wish the tempters were all gone, 

To tempt him nevermore; 
For all the world should be at piece^ 

And all should happy be. 
Save him who don't know when to cease 

Should have the die-or-rhea. 



THE NEW TRY AGAIN. 

Should you \^ish to learn to smoke, 

Try, try again, 
You will find it quite a joke, 

Try, try again; 
It may make you spue at first, 
Till you think your skin will burst — 
Take some lager for your thirst — 
Try, try again. 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 89 



If you buy a " 2 for 5," 

Try, try again, 
You will have to tug and strive. 

Try, try again; 

If it does not make you spue; 
Then you can begin to chew; 
Slyly thus combine the two, 

Try, try again. 



If your breath begins to stink, 

Try, try again. 

You can help it with a drink, 

Try, try again ; 

Then your whisky should appear. 
For if you will persevere, 
You can take it with your beer, 
Try, try again. 



If you fancy Limberg cheese. 

Try, try again, 

You cpn eat it when you please. 
Try, try again; 

It will make your breath so sweet, 
That every one you chance to meet. 
Will turn from you with nimble feet, 
Try, try again. 



90 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



With bad whisky and cigars, 

Try, try again. 

You can smoke just like the cars, 
Try, try again; 

In a contest you'd be free 

To tackle any living three. 

Or Vesuvius o'er the sea, 

Try, try again ! 



A GIRL'S SOLILOQUY ON "BANGS." 

" Plague take my bangs, my hateful bangs ! 
While this one curls the next one hangs! 
I've vv^orried an hour 
With patience and power. 
Until my face itself is sour. 

Committing, no doubt, fifty sins, 

While twisting the unruly pins, 
And irons hot as fire; 
Next using a quire 
Of paper — to increase my ire. 

I had seen in a book, somewhere. 
That gum was good to bang the hair; 
So, then I took gum 
To make it succumb, 
Assisted, kindly, by a chum. 



SONGS OF A FLEB, 91 

But I shall ne'er do that again, 
For they looked like a bison's mane, 

And to my surprise 

Hung down o'er my eyes. 

Not showing me a whit too wise. 

Sometimes I hate the name of bangs ! 
Indeed, they, fill my soul with pangs; 

But, being in styl e, 

I must, for awhile, 

My wounded spirit reconcile. 

However, these are of no use; 

Tins, pins, gum, irons, paste and juice — 

'Tis safer to wear 

Some other girl's hair, 

Who left her bangs to go "Over there." 



POOR OLD POMP. 

A SONG. 
My poor heart's broke — 
'Tis not a joke; 
But I'll tell you all my grief, 
'Tis about the end 
Of a canine friend. 
So, then, of course, quite brief. 

Chorus — *' He must have been a good dog- 
Solo — Oh, he was a good dog, 
And fond of play and romji. 
Chorus — He must have been a big dog"- 
Solo — Oh, he was a big dog ; 
His given name was Pomp. 



92 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



The -children cried — 
Chorus — -*'The neighbors sighed ?" 

But I think 'twas all pretense; 
For whene'er he got 
Over in their lot, 
They "fired" him over the fence. 

Chorus — " He fought the cats ?" 
But kill'd the rats— 
Chorus — And chased the sheep o' nights ?" 
O, no, no indeed; 
For his daily feed 
Was loads of liver and lights. 



He got a pill — 
Chorus — '* Which made him ill?" 

'Twas a dose of pounded glass; 
Yes it made him pale — 
Chorus — ** And curled his tail ?" — 

x\nd it caused his death, alas ! 



I wouldn't have cried,. 

Because he died; 
But one thought, still gives me pain; 

As I stopped up street 

For some sausage meat, 
I found his collar and chain ! 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 93 

EXPRESSIONS OF THE UPTOWN PEOPLE ON THESE 
HOT DAYS.— (A July Idyl.) 

Smith — "Oh, for a pillar of Arctic snow, 
A coverlet made of ice, 
A bed where the welcome blizzards blow, 
Though tossing us up like dice !" 

Jones — " Oh, for a ride on a glacier's side^ 

Where shines the Aurorian light, 
Where hungry insects ne'er reside, 
Or hang around for a bite !" 

Brown — " Oh, for a Borean storm surprise, 
Or a frozen-wind cyclone, 
Or for a fan of enormous size, 
To reach to the Frigid Zone !" 

Tompkins — " Oh, for a trip on a comet's tail 

Through infinite depths of space, 
To some high peak where a cooler gale 
Would come to our parching face !" 

Hadley--' Oh, for a sleep in an iceberg's core, 
In an undiscover'd bed. 
Where goeth not up the fretful snore 
From the scl'taire no^e in red !" 

.-/// — But, we get only the scorching beam, 
A shifting phantom of shade, 
Perchance a plate of the so-called cream, 
Two straws and <i lemonade. 



94 SONGS OF A PLEB, 



Then, tell us that earth's a paradise, 
And pleasures wondrously cheap, 

When we hire a boy to brush the flies, 
Whenever we wish to sleep ! 



THE CANDIDATE 

BEFORE THE FLECTION. 

" Why, how do you do, Mister Brown ? 
I'm real glad you came to town, 
That I may grasp that honest hand ; 
We mortals are too apt to stand 
On trifling ceremonies, and 
Forget the welfare of the land; — 
How are your babies and your wife ? 
Those precious jewels of a life ! 
Well ? Good ! Come have a cigar ? 
No ? Well, then a smile at the bar ? 
Wife scolds ? Well, I always did think 
We should close those places of drink ! 




SONGS OF A PLEB. 95 



If I'm elected, neighbor Brown, 
I'll do my best to put them down — 
Ah, gone ? May fortune strew your way ; 
But don't forget jomx friend^ Good day !" 

AFTER THE ELECTION. 

" Here comes old Brown, one of the cranks, 
To bore me with his Nash'nal Banks, 
The Chinese Act, Tariff and Trade, 
(I wish such men were never made.) 
Or with some lie of wife or brats, 
(Enough to shame good Democrats.) 
Or some ill-wrought petition which, 
If carried '11 make the old rogue rich. 
I see the blossom on his nose 
Is getting redder as it grows — 
I'll have to greet him. — Hello, Brown ! , 
What in the world brings you to town ? 
How can you leave your wife and kids ! 
(A politician never rids 
Himself of old bores. Heaven knows 
I can't breathe right until he goes.) 
They're well— What ! a petition, too ? 
I'm sorry I can't sign it, Brown — Adieu !" 



96 SOJVGS OF A FLEB. 

THE MODERN PRINCE. 

Tune — A Ti7tker a7td a Tailor. 

O, he comes o'er the Atlantic 
With an air that is pedantic; 
And the ladies all grow frantic 

About his royal blood; 
With a smile, robust and healthy, 
And with words and ways so stealthy, 
He tells no one he's wealthy, 

Bui has it understood. 



He goes with the ladies yachting — 
To the parks to see the trotting; 
But all the while he's plotting 

Like a shrewd financier ; 
Although quite aristocratic, 
I am sure he is fanatic 
About singers operatic, 

And gardens full of beer. 



Then at the evening party, 
He has a laugh so hearty. 
With " gush" enough to start a 

New, turbine water wheel. 
So, he tries to play casino ; 
But good gracious I What does he know ? 
" How to eat a Philipino 

Made of an orange peel !" 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 97 

But with ways so very airy 
Does the dances like a fairy, 
And they wonder who he'll marry 

Before his money's spent; 
Well, he weds a banker's daughter, 
'Tis a lesson sad he's taught her; 
For the news comes o'er the water; 

"A fraud, without a cent !" 



BRIM-FULL. 



There is a hateful hat, 

Sometimes 'tis called a "flat," 
And I can't tell you whether 
'Tis made of straw or feather; 

But this I'm sad to know; 

It comes where'er I go. 

On Sunday in my pew, 
I thought I had a view 

To see and hear the preacher; 

But came therein a creature 
Who down before me sat 
With her Gainsboro hat. 

I went again — to hear 
The younger Booth in " Lear. ' 
But ere they rang the curtain, 
They ushered in a certain 
Young lady with a brim 
That made the footlights dim. 



98 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



I thought I'd try a show, 
Where big hats never go; 
But there before the cages, 
Both looking wise as sages, 
Admiring monkey-whims 
Two ladies stood with brims. 



So that's the way it goes 
At church, at plays, at shows; 
While hiding ladies' faces 
"With feathers, straw, and laces. 
The broadbrims seem to take 
" The everlasting cake. " 



MIKE'S LITTLE DOG PRINCE. 

{Canis Finigansis.) 

I'll tell you a story of Prince, 

A dog that has " lots o' good sints ; " 

But plays the " Old Harry " 

With Ella and Mary, 
And keeps their beaux off of the fence. 

For, always, he barks in advance. 
Then bites when he gets a good chance; 
For such is his failing, 
To creep through the paling, 
And seize a young man by the pants. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 99 



The other girls think him " immense," 
And laugh at the numerous rents, 

And say he does right 

To bark and to bite, 
And keep the boys off of the fence. 

He's a terrible dog for rats, 

And fights with the John Thomas cats, 

And follows "McCarty" 

From party to party, 
Which bores the poor Democrats. 

The loafers have learned a wise trick, 
And shun the approach of the *'Mick;" 

For when they see Prince, 

They flee with a wince. 
And know he is nigh with his stick. 

But why Prince's a dog of such sense. 
And 's kept regardless of expense. 

Is; in days o' disaster 

He stuck to his master, 
And kept hivi off of the fence. 



loo SONGS OF A FLEB. 



A CAPUT-AL JOKE. 

To you, perhaps, this story's old, 
But once a clown, so I've been told, 
O'ertook his friend upon the way, 
Who thus to him began to say : 
" Good morning, friend, give us a shake; 
Oft'times we've met, lest I mistake; 
And when I meet you as I go. 
Your head is always bending low, 
I ask you this, now tell me true, 
Have sad misfortunes come to you, 
Or are you brooding o'er the stings 
That fortune to another brings ? 
Why not cheer up, with head on high, 
And bear reverses, as do 1 ? 
" Good sir," the clown politely said, 
"I've learnt some facts about the head; 
I've been in fields with birds and bees, 
I've been in orchards with the trees, 
I've been in gardens with the fruit; 
I'm satisfied beyond dispute; 
I have examined heads of wheat, 
And here to you let me repeat. 
That empty heads do stand quite straight, 
But laden heads bend down, sedate. 
No man, by this, would I condemn; 
But green fruit seldom bends its stem; 
Since this is true of fruit and grain, 
Must it not be of men and brain ?" 




SONGS OF A PLEB. 



DOG DAYS DOGGEREL. 

Rays in coming down ab so lis 
Reprove us with a searching scowl, 

Till, at length, they oft patrol us 

Where mad and thirsty canines howl 



In our book we merely noted 

The points one gave us in his song ; 

How he'd been a dog^ devoted, 
And for his pains received a thong. 



Saying: "1 have heard my mother 

Remark : * Each dog will have his day;' 

But for me, somehow or other, 
In this shed I'm doom'd to stay. 



Master said: * His star is Sirius, 

And while it shines we'll keep him close' - 
'Tis serioztSf yes, delirious, 

And also, very lachrymose ! 



Truly, on this point I'm jmzzled; 

A dog went crazy, just next door, 
And the woman had 7fie muzzled 

And tetliered here, hurt to the core. 



I02 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



Now the air is full of vapor, 

And ev'ry pond is turning green, 

Master, just to cut a caper, 

Has gone where no dog can be seen. 



Yet, in liquid coolness rolling, 
My master, at the ocean's side, 

Bathing, driving, or a-strolling, 
Hears not the moaning of the tied. 



THE CLASSICAL FISHERMAN. 

Sometimes I take my Cicero 

To cast a Cataline, 
And as upon the bay we go, 

I bait her hook and mine. 



A Plat o' cat is just the thing, 
A student's mind to please — 

We'd Livy life of modern king 
On fishes such as these. 



Suppose we see a water-snake ? 

It won't ab Horace much — 
A Juvenal of course would quake, 

And faint at sight of such. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 103 



Iphigenie footing sure' 
I climb a rugged clifif, 

Until my lady's looks, demure, 
Recall me to the skiff. 



And then I'll Caesar by the hand. 
And reascend the ledge — 

While on the very Virgil stand, 
She won't approach the edge. 

So fishing thus along the bay, 
A summer's day we spend, 

I can not Tell you in this lay. 
What happy thoughts attend. 

And when the sun is sinking low, 

My lady has her wish, 
For having now a prize to show, 

Takes Homer string of fish. 



I04 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



'NO FRUIT." 




Enough, enough ye men of lore ! 

Your wisdom (?) we salute; 
But can't exactly have you bore 

Our lives out with " No Fruit !" 



Ye tell the havoc of the frost 
That kills each tender shoot; 

And how the "luckless farmer" lost 
A year's supply of fruit ! 



O, sapient souls! O, please desist; 

For just one day, be mute. 
Don't let your truthful tongues insist 

Forever, " There's no fruit." 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 105 



A tender corn we can endure, 

Perhaps, a pinching boot, 
But hang the doctor who would cure 

The prophet of " the fruit ! " 

We could forgive a stubborn mule, 

A "dead-beat" or "galoot;" 
But heaven save us from the fool, 

Who always cries, " No fruit !" 

Chain-gangs would suffer dire disgrace 

From any such recruit, 
As he who goes from place to place 

With comments on " the fruit." 

We'll bear the man who peddles swill, 
The chimney-sweep, in soot; 

But Jove, invent a bolt to kill 
The prophet on " the fruit." 



MONKEY-FACES. 



Darwin says; " We sprang from the monkey." 

Now, that's rather spunky 

For a flunky — 

Monkey ! 

He need not try to span such a chasm 
By means of a protoplasm, 
Or any " asm;" 
Chasm ! 



io6 SONGS OF A FLF.B. 



For we think he takes the wrong basis 

To make monkey-faces 

At our races ; 

Basis ! 

As if God had not power, all-seeing, 

To make th' human being, 

While decreeing : 

Being! 

And 'tis needless for me to mention , 
His book on " Descention," 
'Tis invention. 
Mention ! 

People read and think about it; 

But are apt to doubt it, 

Sneer or flout it, 

Doubt it ! 

If he had said they came from Adam, 

Or eve, worthy madame, 

He'd 'a' had 'em. 

Adam ! 




SOIVGS OF A FLEB, 107 



A KISS. 

Tune:— ^^ Building Castles in the Air.^'' 

We live upon the sea of life, 

We're wafted by its tide; 
To some there comes no day of strife, 

No friends but bona fide. 



Sometimes I think I would enjoy 
No world as well as this; 

Could I forever be the boy 
To share a maiden's kiss. 



The first sweet kiss I ever stole, 

I stole from Mary Gough; 
The thoughts of it still haunt my soul — 

I caught the whooping-cough ! 



And then, again, I recognize 
A stroll with Annie Dumps; 

And how I took her by surprise, 
And took also — the mumps. 

And when Kate stoop'd to whisj^er low, 

I kissed her like a flash; 
But saints above 1 I did not know 

I'd caught the scarlet rash ! 



io8 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



And can I e'er forget sweet Nell 
Until my day of death ? 

For still methinks that I can smell 
The onions on her breath. 



And still life's dream's a handsome face, 

Its smile a poet's bliss; 
And men grow frantic in the race 

To win therefrom a kiss. 



TO THE BROOM BRIGADE.* 

See the " soldiers" fall in line, 
Which, of course, is crinoline, 
Looking sweet and half divine, 
As they march in pantomime. 

See them as they quickly glide 
O'er the stage from side to side, 
While the gazers say with pride, 

" How they keep the step in time !" 

Cap of scarlet on each head. 
At each side a dust-pan red, 
Brooms for muskets used instead, 
And like "reg'lars" they behave. 

''•• The above was written on seeing a drill exercise at a church fair. The company 
consisted of the most beautiful and refined young 1 dies in the city. Instead of mus- 
kets they used the old fashi jned brooms. The piece is written in imitation of the tune 
played by the orchestra, to which they drilled. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 109 



Brooms to shoulders tightly press'd, 
Woman's weapon, noblest, best; 
Handled nimbly and caress'd — 
O, to be a broom I crave! 



Ah, fair soldier of the broom, 
Thou canst sweep away my gloom- 
I surrender, read my doom — 
Prisoner I, and captive slave ! 



IN NOVEMBER. 

Now goeth forth the sportingman 
With gun upon his arm, 

And blooded dog near by his side. 
Without a* thought of harm. 

So goeth forth the brindle cow, 
To pasture on the farm, 

A -thinking of the grasses sweet, 

When summer days were warm. 



The farmer "drives his team a-field," 
To husk the ripened rows, 

Before old winter comes along, 

And hides them with his snows. 



no SOJVGS OF A PLEB, 



" Bang, bang !" the sportsman's gun is heard. 
He thinks he saw a quail, 
But oh ! the brindle cow goes mad, 
And curls her festive tail. 



The farmer's team then runs away, 

And he begins to yell, 
And hunt the man whose gun stirr'd up 

Such everlasting Hades. 



And then the sporting man breaks loose, 

And runs at least a mile, 
Forgetting both his dog and gun, 

Which makes the farmer smile. 



Then meditates the sporting man. 
That maybe he is sold. 

For when he gets his dog and gun. 
The day is very cold. 



A STORY OF THE BLUEBIRD \ 

FOR WEAK-MINDED PERSONS. 

The little bluebird 
In the land is heard ; 
Up in the apple-tree, 
'Tis singing for you and me. 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. iii 



Along comes a boy, 

Who makes it a toy; 

He picks up a stone and throws,- 

Away the bluebird goes ! 



There again it sits. 

And chirrups and twits, 
Then shakes its little wings, 
And triumphantly sings. 



Boy thinks on a plan 
Of conquest ; and can 
Not keep it on his breast 
Till bluebird makes its nest. 



For up in the tree 
He happens to see 
Holes in a limb, where he 
Thinks the nest ought to be. 



So up, up, he goes, 
Propp'd by his big toes, 
And holding with his legs, 
He reaches for the eggs. 



Out springs a black-snake ! 
Boy forgets to take 
Time enough to descend, 
So, breaks his neck, The end 



H2 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 



OVERCOATS IN JUNE. 

Overcoats in June ! 

Why, I'd just as soon 
Be compelled to emigrate to the moon 

Where there is no air, 

As always to wear 
Overcoats and mits on occasions so rare. 



Overcoats in June 

A precious boon ? 
Ah, this reminds me they were pull'd too soon, 

Like the tender shoot, 

O r unmatured fruit 
Which the boy thinks a needful attribute. 



Pd like to know where 

The summer, so rare 
Can be recruiting or taking the air: — 

I've heard people say 

That sometime in May 
Or June, S2i7?tmers, generally come to stay; 



But one would suppose 

From the hails and snows, 
And the liberality of his nose, 

That Winter and Spring, 

In forming a " ring, " 
Had thought summer a " contemptible thing." 



SONGS OF A FLEB, 113 



HEN-PECKED PHILOSOPHY. 

Xantippe was a woman of her mind, 
Which' s frequently the case with womankind: 
She was the wife of wise, old Socrates, 
Who always let her manage as she'd please; 
'Twas wisest, he said, although, hardly fair; 
For he remembered his eyes and his hair. 



Alcibiades, speaking of his wife, 
Ask'd Socrates how he lived in such strife; 
Explaining, that he would as soon be dead, 
As to give up all the hair on his head. 
" O, I expect her to abuse me thus, 
And should feel lonesome not to hear her fuss. 
It is as common, now, and as discreet, 
As rattle of carriages in the street ! " 



One day, while her anger had sway in her breast. 
She used all the " names" her wrath could suggest : 
In order to shun the "racket and roar," 
Wise Socrates went to sit in the door; 
And, his demeanor, so quiet and tame, 
Rekindled, once more, her anger to flame; 
So, up the stair-steps, in a trice she fled, 
And poured a pail of water on his head. 
"Ah," said he laughing, " it is very plain, 
That after so much thunder there'd be rain." 



114 SOJVGS OF A PLEB, 



THE SPRING POET. 

The first poet of Spring 

Attempted to sing, 
But ere he could read his first verse, 

The editor wise 

Black'd both of his eyes, 
And ordered a coffin and hearse. 



The foreman with " planer" 

Dealt him a brainer, 
And " pied " his whole " form" on the floor, 

The " devil " in gloom, 

Swept up with the broom, 
And carried him out at the door. 



All broke up by the knocks, 

He reached the "hell-box," 
Where it was the " impression" he'd stay ; 

But think of the jest ! 

Before the inquest, 
A " stiff-hunter" stole him away. 



Then the " local man " wrote, 

And set it to note. 
The song the gay printers did sing. 

That if tired of life. 

Or a scolding wife ; 
Just bring in a verse about " Spring," 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 115 



THE STREET WALKER. 

Oh, merciful stars ! there she goes, 

Led by her notion and her nose — 

Tramp, tramp — from morn till night she's seen, 

Like a castle-guarder for the queen ; 

Bold and audacious, rude and rash. 

On the alert, " making a mash. " 



No school, no book, no magazine; 
Just tramp, tramp, tramp like a marine 
On the deck. And, anon her eye 
Sees new victims which need not try 
To slU^ the unmerciful lash 
Of her tongue, while "making a mash." 



Counting the bricks which pave the streets, 
Smiling at ev'ry " snob" she meets ; 
Like the moth which flies to the blaze 
In twilight of the summer days, 
And for the glow loses his life, 
So she, for show, becomes a wife. 



O, giddy girl, O, deluded girl. 

Whose head is always in a whirl, 

We humbly ask you to desist, 

No longer in the ranks enlist 

Of those who walk and stalk the streets 

To " mash" the rough and toughest "beats." 



ii6 SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 

SANDWICHES. 

** Answer a fool according to his folly." — Solomon. 

Ingersoll. — "How in the desert, I pray you tell, 
Did e'er the children of Isra'l dwell, 
On such a limited bill of fare ? " 

Orthodox. — " Why, on the manna sandwiches there." 



Ingersoll. — " Let me ask you to explain, once more. 

Where they obtained such bounteous store ? " 



Orthodox. — " Why, Ham was there, and, so it is said. 
All his descendants mustered and bred. " 



Ingersoll. — " Stop there a moment; 'tis eas'ly seen 

They had no butter to spread between; 
Sandwiches arn't sandwiches, you know, 
Without good butter to make them so ! " 



Orthodox. — " Ah, remember, when God in his ire. 

Rained upon Sodom brimstone and fire.. 
He told his saints to hasten and flee. 
And turn not back his vengeance to see; 
But, alas! Lot's wife having a fault, 
Turn'd to look back — and turn'd to salt : 
So, in the desert, with good intent. 
All of Lot's family, but 'er went." 



SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 117 



ON THE BANANA PEEL. 

O, banana peel! O, banana peel! 
Thou slippeth and slideth the trav'ler's heel; 
Thou scooteth him up and letteth him drop; 
Thus making of him a regular mop ! 

O, banana peel ! O, banana peel ! 
Thou maketh the stoniest heart to feel; 
For tossing his feet up into the air, 
Thy victim is forced to utter a prayer ! 

O, banana peel ! O banana peel ! 
Thou art ever a source of anger and weal, 
For always playing thy slippery tricks, 
A-knocking men down, yet striking no licks ! 

O, banana peel ! O, banana peel ! 
Respecting no man, either rude or genteel; 
But bringing down both rheumatics and gout, 
And bouncing their pockets, both inside out ! 



THE GO-BY.* 



O, I'm a millionaire, 
I'll tell you what I know by, 
My sweetheart made her will, 
And gave to me the go-by. 



■■'•'NoTH. — " Oo-hy," or " G. H." is a slang expression in the Western stales meaning 
the grand bounce, the ci>lcl shoulder, the mitten, the sack, a *tjuare ileal, a send otV, a 
kick a blowing up, or some other word of I>atin (?) origin, used, generally, by a young 
lady, to show her utter disgust for the unmitigating ass who eruUavors to gain, by in- 
finietismal increments, the undivided unit of her love. 



ii8 SONGS OF A PLEB. 



O, I'll be fixed for sure, 
So far across the Oby, 
For down in A-si-a, 
There is the desert Gobi. 



A deserted youth I am, 
Her cot my tears shall flow by, 
Not for the w^aste of land, 
But for the dreadful go-by. 



ENOUGH TO DRIVE POOR OSCAR WILD. 

Sunflower bonnets and sunflower hats, 
Sunflower ribbons, ties and cravats, 
" Sunflow'r parties," so they've been styled, 
Enough to drive poor Oscar wild. 



Sunflower gardens perfume the air. 
Sunflower pictures everywhere, 
Sunflower cards in our baskets piled — 
Enough to drive poor Oscar wild. 

Sunflower men make their sunflower calls. 
Sunflower clubs give their sunflower balls, 
Sunflower maidens, "too too" beguiled — 
Enough to drive poor Oscar wild. 



SONGS OF A PLEB. 



119 



Yellow and black or lily white, 
Is all I see from morn till night ; 
Sunflower dresses for ev'ry child — 
Enough to drive poor Oscar wild. 

Sunflower gossip is all I hear. 
Sunflowers bloom twelve months in the year : 
O, sunflower man, so soon exiled — 
Enough to drive poor Oscar Wilde. 



PLAYING BUTTON. 

Tune — " Gypsy Davy, " 

O, "button" is a merry game, 
And glad am I to g ay it ; 

But children aren't the only ones 
Who ever learn to play it. 

The little lambs, they skip and jump 
To exercise their mutton, 

And then they play that little game. 
The little game of buttin' ! 




I20 



SONGS OF A FLEB. 



But when they break their little necks 

With their caper cutting, 
They never have to stop and ask; 

" Who has got the butting ?" - 



When Carlo finds a bite of meat, 
He eats it like a glutton-^ 

Forgets about the other dogs, 
Because he has the button. 



Some nosy eds. won't clip this piece, 
While other squibs they're cuttin', 

But turn their inky snoots aloft, 
And say : " 'S not worth a button." 




SONGS OF A PLEB, 121 



TWO, 



Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that bill and coo; 

He said, " I am oor sugar plum, 
Oose sugar, , plum are 00 ?" 

She smiled a sweet, molasses smile, 
And blushed as red as morn, 

And threw her arms about his neck, 
And gently whispered, "Oorn. " 

Two shadows, then, upon the wall, 

Were melted into one, 
Then two eyes with their lustrous light, 

Were glowing like the sun ! 



The eastern sky was turning gray, 
A wakeful cock, then crew; 

Two lovers parted in the hall, 

The old house-clock struck "two," 



122 SONGS OF A PLEB, 



TO HATTIE. 

" Flattery makes the wise feel flatter," 
But then, you've experienced that,~ 
Then, should I be blamed in the matter 
Of simply admiring a Hat ? 



In selecting, I tell my hatter, 
" Give me a hat that will wear. 

And keep its right shape and not tatter. 
Or fade in changes of air." 

And just so with the friends who scatter 
Smiles from their faces so fair, 

I care not so much for the latter. 

Unless they're friends who will wear. 



TO SMITH ON HIS MARRIAGE. 

O, man of that peculiar name, 

Regarded as a myth, 
How could you ask a blushing 'dame 

To call herself " Mr?. Smith ?" 



S02VGS OF A FLEB. 123 



MARRIED IN HASTE. 

BEFORE THE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

He was like the towering oak, 
She like the clinging vine, 
She wore a costly sealskin cloak, 
He wore his diamonds fine. 

AFTER THE BLOSSOMS. 

Alas, alas for towering oak, 

Alas, for clinging vine. 

They have their jewels in the "soak,' 

And live on tenderline. 



THE BUTTER FLY. 

What doth make the butter fly ? 
Buckwheat cakes, and chicken pie, 
Oyster soup and oyster fry. 
Or the miller. 



Yes, and something else, my dear. 
Listen now and you shall hear, 
It is ugly, but don't fear — 
The caterpillar. 



124 



SOJVGS OF A FLEE, 



THE LAST. 

O, what was that the cobbler flung 
To hit his wife, while he aghast, 

Received the missiles from her tongue, 
Which always craved the very last ? 



O, what is first to wear our shoes, 

To give them shape and hold them fast, 

And make us have the bluest blues, 

Because too small ? Why, 'tis the last I 



And what is it that's number 8, 
With no excuse for being vast ? 

To say the word I hesitate ; 

But now 'tis said — it is my last 




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